


Reduced To So Many Fragments

by AssessTheSituation



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hugh | Third of Five Lives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Season/Series 01, Slow Romance, The Borg, xBs (Star Trek)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24212830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssessTheSituation/pseuds/AssessTheSituation
Summary: After the mission to find Coppelius, Hugh finds himself holding on to the Borg Reclamation Project by the skin of his teeth. He will do everything he can for his people, but fighting a battle with few allies and no end in sight is beginning to take it's toll, and while the Romulan warrior who bound himself to Hugh's cause remains dutifully by his side, that only creates another problem Hugh's heart isn't ready to handle.All the while something is out there, waiting in the dark spaces between stars. A familiar danger with an unfamiliar face, and it wants Hugh.
Relationships: Agnes Jurati/Cristóbal Rios (mentioned), Elnor/Hugh | Third of Five, Raffi Musiker/Seven of Nine
Comments: 62
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek: Picard, why can't I quit you?
> 
> No seriously, I still think the show is a step below hot-garbage. Just get better writers show. Get better writers who give a damn about the characters and I shall throw myself prostrate at your feet. But I think it's you guys, the fandom, being what keeps me coming back. That, and my never-ending bitterness over Hugh's death.
> 
> So here I am, after outlining this insane monster of a plot, attempting another multi-chapter work. Only this time, I have written chapters in advance. I'll update weekly, every Sunday (only not this coming Sunday because I decided to post this chapter early).
> 
> No beta. All mistakes written by me.
> 
> I enjoy comments. I love to learn what you guys think and to converse. I don't know enough Star Trek fans in my day to day.

_It is dark here._  
  
_It is a familiar darkness. Not an absence of light, but an absence of everything._  
  
_Here, there is peace. Quiet. So much quiet._  
  
_Here, there used to be thousands of consciouses. Now there is only one._  
  
_It lies submerged in an endless ocean, only the faintest hint of_ self _separating it from the void._  
  
_But self is unimportant._  
  
_This is not a place for thought. This is a place for repair._  
  
_But it is quiet._  
  
_It is lonely._  
  
_Then it..._ self _..._ **he** _is torn out of the nothing._  
  
A shrill pitch forcibly pulls Hugh from his regeneration cycle. The sound registers as a high priority incoming call, and he opens his eyes to the low lights that adorn the ceiling of his room and gradually comes back to himself.  
  
The faint barbs of synapses firing along pathways to implants long since deactivated or removed slowly turns to the sharp stinging of pins as the energy, with no where to go, dissipates haphazardly along his neurons.  
  
Being interrupted mid-regeneration is always unpleasant, his mind grasping for the link that is no longer there. Eventually it stops and recognizes his body as a whole rather than a part. He is Hugh. This is his body.  
  
He forces himself up and sees the flashing from his terminal.  
  
"Computer, lights at seventy percent, please." There is an answering beep, and the room brightens. "Also, hold incoming transmission for one minute."  
  
The light at his terminal stops flashing and Hugh sighs. It's incredibly early, at least on his end, and considering the hour, Hugh has a highly educated guess as to who's calling. He can easily think of one-hundred other ways he'd rather start his day.  
  
Of course if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.  
  
Reluctantly, Hugh stands up against the vertigo and waits for everything to settle. Once his body relaxes into itself, he reaches up behind his ear to remove his portable regenerator. It's a clever device reverse-engineered by the combined efforts of Geordi and one Lieutenant Reginald Barclay, of whom Hugh has never had the pleasure of meeting in person, then perfected from the schematics of a similar device Annika had created during her time on _Voyager_.  
  
With it, Hugh hasn't needed to use a Borg alcove in many years.  
  
He sets the device in it's charging port and his terminal starts beeping again. He won't have time to change into his uniform, but Hugh can't find it in himself to care too much about propriety. He is the one, for lack of a better term, being called up in the middle of the night.  
  
Hugh drops into his chair without an ounce of finesse and runs a quick hand through his hair to tame it into some semblance of order. Hugh knows he doesn't move in his sleep, and yet somehow, after every cycle, his hair ends up looking like he'd narrowly escaped getting blown out an airlock.  
  
Plastering on a polite smile, Hugh answers the call. His vid-screen lights up to show Admiral Demetrius Dorsey, dressed in his finest reds and pips shined to perfection gleaming off his collar. Impressively, Hugh doesn't automatically shut his screen off.  
  
Admiral Dorsey is a man who wears his age well and knows it. The gray at his temples speaks of maturity while the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth make him approachable. Being a near-perfect combination of confident, sociable, and handsome, Dorsey is the sort of man Hugh was so desperate to emulate when he was newer.  
  
Now Hugh anticipates his calls like a Ferengi anticipates being asked to make a charitable donation.  
  
"Director Hugh," Dorsey greets, all white teeth and feigned cheer. He then gives Hugh a cursory glance. "Did I get you at a bad time?"  
  
As if Dorsey didn't ensure he looked his absolute best to catch Hugh freshly rolled out of bed still dressed in his pajamas.  
  
It is due to years of learning and dealing with the minutiae of politics that Hugh's expression doesn't falter, his tone appropriately respectful. "Not to worry, Admiral Dorsey. It's 0302 Earth-time here," and then he prods, just a little. "With how busy I'm sure you are, I understand how relatively simple mistakes like that can happen."  
  
Dorsey reacts in no other way than a smile. "I've never been much good with my time zones, and I certainly couldn't hold a candle to the efficiency of the Borg. You'll have to forgive me my simple mistakes, they're what make me human."  
  
Hugh bites the inside of his cheek. He won't rise to the bait. It isn't worth it. "Of course, Admiral. Now, what can I help you with?"  
  
"I'm sending you some information, Director," Dorsey taps on his terminal just out of frame, "Read it over and tell me what you think."  
  
Hugh receives a document and an audio file and pulls them up in another window. He reads through the document quickly, and it's obvious that Dorsey could have just sent it without the wake-up call. Not that Hugh expected any different.  
  
So, Hugh takes his time since Dorsey has no compulsion about wasting his, going through each line syllable by syllable and nodding his head with the proper amount of interest at the end of every paragraph. It's not Hugh's fault that official Starfleet reports tend to err on the side of excess.  
  
As Geordi would say, it's the little things in life.  
  
Objectively, Hugh knows Dorsey isn't a terrible man. If he were to make a list, Dorsey wouldn't even breach the top twenty of the worst he's had to deal with. But Dorsey is something of a liaison between the Artifact project and Starfleet, whereas Hugh is a Federation civilian and not bound by Starfleet and so not technically under Dorsey's direct command.  
  
For a project as significant as reclaiming an entire Borg cube, Starfleet's involvement is minimal, and when Dorsey tries to bark orders, Hugh often takes them as suggestions whenever he can get away with it. As long as he dots his i's and crosses his t's, Dorsey has very little say.  
  
Still, Hugh has to go through Dorsey when he needs specific help only Starfleet can provide, and Dorsey, who doesn't appreciate his authority being challenged, likes to use that fact to make Hugh jump through hoops. Luckily, Hugh's gotten very good at jumping over the years.  
  
As frustrating as their dynamic is, it's also strangely refreshing. Hugh is in a unique position of power, and Dorsey can't keep him under his thumb. Hugh gets the distinct impression that this is why, unlike most anyone else he has ever met, Dorsey dislikes him so much. Hugh being ex-Borg merely affords Dorsey the opportunity to throw out thinly veiled insults.  
  
Hugh's read the report over twice by the time Dorsey starts to tap his desk impatiently, and the undercurrent of irritation of his, "Well?" makes Hugh's smile feel a little more genuine.  
  
"I understand mysterious blips can be concerning, Admiral," Hugh says, "But I'm not sure why my opinion is needed."  
  
Dorsey leans back in his chair, the very picture of professional concern, and Hugh knows he isn't going to like what comes next. "That blip appeared closest to the planet B'til of the Tiburon system, and the Governess of B'til happens to be a close personal friend. Her people were worried it could have possible Borg connections."  
  
"That is... unlikely," The muscles in Hugh's jaw start to strain, "While it may share certain identifiers, most sub-space frequencies do," As any academy cadet past their first year would know. "I'm sorry to say, Admiral, but from this report, your blip has more in common with feedback from an Orion junk freighter."  
  
"I figured as much," replies Dorsey solemnly, and Hugh would say that would be the end of it if he didn't know this conversation is just a formality for Dorsey to get Hugh to do what he wants anyway. "But," he continues, "I assured Governess Liarcs that it would be looked into, just to be safe. A full analyzation, written up and on my desk by 0600 tomorrow. Earth-time."  
  
So it was going to be one of those calls, was it?  
  
"Admiral," Hugh tries for directness, "with the current state of the Artifact, my people don't have the ti-"  
  
"Then _maybe_ ," irritation bleeds through Dorsey's cordial facade as he cuts Hugh off, "if time is such an issue, Director, you shouldn't have wasted so much of it gallivanting off across the galaxy with Picard."  
  
There it is. The great insult to Dorsey's pride. Hugh had left the Artifact without so much as a note on Dorsey's desk. It would be funny if it wasn't so petty, considering Hugh's complete lack of choice in the matter.  
  
He can still feel the cold bite of Narissa's throwing knife, the Cube around him growing dark until all he could see were the scared, soulful eyes of a young Romulan warrior who'd done his best for a lone, hopeful fool.  
  
He'd closed his eyes, his own blood spilling between his fingers, submitting to a death he'd never given much thought to considering how recently he'd started to live. He supposed an ex-Borg drone dying on a severed Borg cube made some sort of cruel, poetic sense.  
  
Only Hugh didn't die. He'd opened his eyes again to a house with high, wooden beams, covered in wool blankets and pictures and home-made gifts, to the relieved faces of Troi and Riker and a young girl who looked like them both, to the far more subtle worry of Annika in her crossed arms and tight line of her mouth, and to the same Romulan warrior, now with a smile so bright it outshone the light streaming in from the windows.  
  
Hugh had recovered on Nepenthe, and unable to go back to the Artifact until it was done, joined Picard on his mission. When Hugh did return, it didn't matter that the cube had been usurped by Tal Shiar. It didn't matter the damaged they caused, nor the lives they took. It didn't matter that he'd almost died.  
  
Dorsey wanted to lay blame. He wanted _blood_ , but all he could do was slap Hugh on the wrist, because Starfleet, in dealing with the fallout of the Zhat Vash and discovery of Coppelius, had bigger problems to worry about than someone as comparatively insignificant as Hugh.  
  
Now, nothing can so much as squeak in space without Dorsey stamping it as 'top priority' and sending it Hugh's way. It's like a game to Dorsey. One where he gets all the pieces, the cards, and the board, and Hugh gets to sit there and smile.  
  
Hugh lets his hands ball into fists because Dorsey's can't see them.  
  
If things were like they were before, Hugh wouldn't mind. Well, no, he would mind, but he'd be better capable to deal with it. With everything that happened, the Artifact needs him more than ever, and Dorsey wants to drown him in trivial paperwork to be spiteful.  
  
Hugh would love to tell Dorsey to take his report somewhere else, but he's already walking an incredibly thin line. The Borg Reclamation Project relies so heavily on third party investments and resources. Sooner or later, Hugh's actions are going to be looked at with greater scrutiny, and he can't afford to loose what he's managed to salvage.  
  
He can't afford to make a mistake. Tens of thousands of lives are depending on him.  
  
One day, Hugh isn't going to have to bend over backwards for bureaucracy, but that isn't going to be this day, and it must show on his face, because Dorsey relaxes back into his usual charming, smug expression. Another point to him.  
  
"So, can I rely on my best man for the job?"  
  
The scars on Hugh face stretch uncomfortably from the force of keeping his smile pleasant. "You'll have my full report by tomorrow morning, Admiral Dorsey."  
  
"Good man," Dorsey says, conceit dripping off him in waves, "I look forward to our next chat," and he ends the call as abruptly as it started.  
  
The reflection in the black mirror of his vid-screen is slowly becoming one Hugh can no longer recognize. There are dark circles under his eyes, shadows where there hadn't been any before. Smiles are harder and harder to come by, laughter even more so.  
  
He feels... he feels used up. Worn out. His nights are long, and his days start early. He can't remember the last time he had a full regeneration cycle. Probably before Picard's arrival, but even then the chances would have been tenuous at best.  
  
But Hugh's not tired, he's _exhausted_. Every day feels like a battle, and it's difficult to keep fighting when he's beginning to realize he was never going to be allowed to win.  
  
Hugh rests his head on his arms. This is his room, and in the privacy of his room, he's allowed a moment of weakness. Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's grief. He lets a tremble run through his body, lets his fingers dig into the muscles of his upper-arms. He takes a minute, listening to his own breathing as he shakes, and then another.  
  
It doesn't matter. He can't let it matter. Hugh's become used to working against stacked odds. It's all his life has ever been.

He'd just hoped it would have eventually gotten better.  
  
Maybe that was naive of him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
He's lost only a couple hours of his regeneration cycle, and Hugh's functioned with less, so he starts his day. There is far too much to do.  
  
The fallout from the Zhat Vash had taken more than two-thirds of Hugh's staff. Most of the Romulans working on the Artifact were Tal Shiar or loyal to their cause, and once the damage to the cube had been done, they left. Afterwards, many of his miscellaneous workers, volunteers from Vulcans to Andorians, quit, unwilling to work alongside the remaining Romulans after the betrayal.  
  
There had been so much confusion, so much death. The Reclamation Project now hangs on by a tether, precariously held by a handful of people passionate about Hugh's work, and a few hundred xBs with no where else to go.  
  
It may not have been his fault, but Hugh can't help but feel responsible. These people relied on him, and he hadn't been there.  
  
It's a chasm running right down his chest, and the only way Hugh knows to fill it is to keep busy. So he walks down the empty hall, mentally shifting his work into what can be completed today and what must be put off to tomorrow, when a lithe body jumps down on his left and joins him.  
  
"Good morning, Hugh," Elnor announces as if he wasn't trapezing the ducts above, not a hair out of place. He gives Hugh a smile so cheerful, Hugh's troubles momentarily recede back into the dark.  
  
"Good morning, Elnor," Hugh replies, a real smile now on his face. Elnor has never failed to make Hugh's day just that much more bearable, and Hugh does his best to keep his moods private.  
  
It isn't enough, however, and Elnor tilts his head at him. "What is wrong?"  
  
Elnor is exceptionally perceptive. Frustratingly so at times. Hugh knows it's simpler to be more upfront with Elnor than if he were speaking to someone else. Elnor doesn't care for the standards to social talk, and doesn't appreciate dishonesty- even something as commonplace as an individual saying they're fine when they aren't. Such is the way, Hugh has learned, of Absolute Candor.  
  
"I was given some additional work," Hugh says, careful to keep the fatigue out of his voice, "but it's nothing I haven't come to expect."  
  
"It is from the Admiral again?" Elnor asks, eyes sharp.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Elnor frowns. "You work so much already. It is unfair of him to expect more of you."  
  
Oh, Hugh could laugh. "It's just how things are. I knew what I was getting into when I became Director, and after everything I've been through, a little extra work isn't about to scare me off, though Admiral Dorsey is welcome to try."  
  
Elnor gets that smiles he does sometimes when Hugh has said something impressive. Hugh hasn't found the pattern to it yet, but each one makes him ridiculously pleased.  
  
"You are truly dedicated," Elnor says proudly, "The Admiral can be nothing but blind if he is unable to see it." Elnor's words shouldn't make Hugh feel so warm inside, but they do. They always do.  
  
"Where are you headed off to so early?" Hugh redirects the conversation to safer territory.  
  
"I am meeting with Eva," Elnor says, "We are continuing my lessons in astronomy."  
  
Eva, though known as Hugh's aide, is more like his second in command. She had taken Elnor under her wing, able to offer him the time Hugh couldn't when they returned to the Artifact two months ago.  
  
Hugh hadn't planned on Elnor coming with him. Hadn't even considered it, really, assuming with Coppelius saved and Dr. Asha reunited with her people, that Elnor would either continue on with the _La Sirena_ crew, or perhaps go back to Vashti. With their quest completed, what reason would Elnor have to follow him?  
  
It was quiet the surprise then, when after a few days of travel, and the _La Sirena_ preparing to transport Hugh back to the Artifact, that Elnor stood next to him on the transporter pad, sword on his back and a small bag slung over his shoulder.  
  
"I have bound my sword to you," Elnor had said as if it was undeniable, a devotion in gaze so dark his eyes were almost black. "We have helped Soji, yes, but your cause is not yet finished."  
  
And Hugh, dumbstruck, could only respond intelligently with, "Oh."  
  
That, apparently, was that, and Elnor went with Hugh to the Artifact, and on the Artifact he stayed. Elnor was a strong, solid presence during those first few weeks, always at Hugh's side as they waded through the mess that had been left behind.  
  
Hugh was beyond grateful, and when things began to come back under order, he wanted more for Elnor than just following him around, waiting diligently for Zhat Vash agents to spring from every shadow. But there was very little to do on a Borg cube that required a sword, and Hugh knew Elnor, much like himself, wanted to be useful.  
  
Thankfully Eva, who was working on their astrometrics lab, charting the records of stars traversed by the Artifact well beyond the limitations of Starfleet, came up with a solution. Now, Elnor helps Eva in the lab, and in turn, Eva teaches him. It's worked out wonderfully, and with how rarely that happens, Hugh will take what he can get.  
  
A defiant part of him misses Elnor's persistent companionship, but that way leads to dangerous thoughts.  
  
"What of your day?" Elnor asks.  
  
"Oh, I'm still figuring it out," Hugh answers with a bit of a humorless edge.  
  
Elnor steps closer to him, then. He seems so comfortable near Hugh when others prefer to keep their distance. Hugh should know to anticipate it by now, the ease in which Elnor approaches him and stays within his space, and the way his heart-rate picks up considerably.  
  
"Will you still be able to meet me for our afternoon meal?" Elnor asks. In the beginning, Elnor was determined not to leave Hugh alone longer than a few minutes, while Hugh wanted him to enjoy and explore what little the Artifact had to offer. Having lunch together was a compromise; Elnor can check on Hugh to his oath's content, and Hugh can enjoy Elnor's company without the guilt over taking all of Elnor's time.  
  
Quickly, Hugh runs through his schedule, reassigning a couple _todays_ to _tomorrows_. He may have to push his regeneration cycle back a couple hours, but that was hardly new. Lunch with Elnor was worth it. "Of course," he says honestly, and Elnor smiles, satisfied.  
  
Like he's done so many times before, Elnor brings his hand up to gently grasp Hugh's shoulder. "I shall see you then," he says, and then, doing something he's only started very recently, Elnor sweeps his thumb along the edge of Hugh's collar once, twice, three times before giving a final squeeze and letting go.  
  
Hugh does his best not to react, and Elnor departs with his usual bow.  
  
Hugh waits until Elnor's footsteps fade away down another hallway before he lets out a breath. He holds his hands deliberately in front of himself. It's a poor imitation of his usual posture, done so he doesn't do something exceptionally pathetic like mimic Elnor's touch.  
  
Hugh is not stupid. Still unfamiliar with certain aspects of socialization, certainly, but not stupid. Like the flame of a candle in a dark room, Hugh has taken a personal comfort in Elnor's affections. Elnor is a rather tactile individual, giving touch freely and kindly. Hugh has seen him interact with other xBs, and Elnor's friendliness to them is a rare and beautiful thing.  
  
But it would be very incredibly stupid to think Elnor's attention to him is anything more than that.  
  
Friendship was Hugh's first and most important lesson. But it was becoming clear, as his eyes would linger on Elnor's hands, as he started to lean into the touches Elnor gave so easily, that this was more. Hugh has never had more.  
  
Before he accurately understood how the universe as a whole felt about the Borg, there were times, delicate and fleeting and very early on in his reclamation, where he was innocent enough to try. He would reach out, open, hopeful, only to be shoved away. Hugh has had enough malice, enough disgust, lobbied his way to know that _more_ is to be kept close to the vest.  
  
He's old enough to know better. Or at least he should be. As it turns out, all it takes is a handful of shared meals and an attentive ear, and Hugh's knees go weak and his heart encourages him to make a fool of himself.  
  
The smart thing to do, Hugh decided, was nothing.  
  
Because Elnor was bright, and beautiful, and young - all things Hugh wasn't. Elnor would talk of his childhood, about his dreams of leaving Vashti and traveling to new worlds as qalankhkai do. He aspired for so much more than the life Hugh was living.  
  
But Elnor was so absolute in his vow, his way as Qowat Milat. If Hugh dared a confession, was is not so impossible to think that Elnor may, out of some misplaced obligation, feel compelled to entertain Hugh's feelings?  
  
The very thought was sickening. Hugh refuses to put Elnor in a position where that could ever happen.  
  
"Sir?" asks a voice suddenly and Hugh turns to see an xB from the engineering sector. Roka, if he remembers correctly.  
  
Roka looks at him, worried but hesitant. One of the hydraulics in his arm rotates with a nervous tick. "Are you alright, sir?"  
  
Hugh gives him a reassuring smile. "I'm sorry, Roka. I was just lost in thought. Did you need something?"  
  
Roka shakes his head, obviously relieved. "No, sir. I was just checking on you, sir."  
  
"Thank you, Roka." The concern is touching. A gentle balm to Hugh's distress.  
  
Roka smiles in an over-exaggerated way that pulls at the skin around the two implants embedded in his cheek and jaw. It takes time for ex-Borg to become comfortable with expressing emotions, but it's good to see Roka trying. "You're welcome, sir," he says, then continues down the hall with jerk of the head.  
  
Hugh flattens out nonexistent wrinkles from the front of his uniform. He has work that needs to be done. The project needs him to be useful, not standing in a hall worrying over things that will never be.  
  
Hugh will spend the rest of his life dedicated to the reclamation and protection of ex-Borg. He will likely spend it on this very cube. But Elnor will not. No, Elnor will eventually leave. He will go out into the galaxy and find something as wonderful as he is, and that will be for the best.  
  
In the meantime, Hugh can keep his feelings to himself.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hugh walks into the main reclamation lab. There are no awaiting Borg drones laid out on tables, but the sterilized tools set up at each station promise of the work that will be done later.  
  
"Weren't you going to bed three hours ago?" asks Dr. S'Arrael from her desk at the far side of the room. She hasn't even looked up at him, nose buried in anatomy configurations.  
  
"I couldn't sleep," Hugh says and picks up a data-pad to scan over the day's roster.  
  
Dr. S'Arrael hums thoughtfully. "Dorsey again, then?"  
  
Hugh doesn't think he makes a face, but Dr. S'Arrael scoffs anyway.  
  
"Politicians," she mutters irritably, "Just a fancy term for imbeciles who interfere in good scientific research."  
  
Hugh cracks a smile at that. Dr. S'Arrael has never been subtle in her opinions, as considerably radical for a Romulan as they are.  
  
"If Dorsey were Cardassian," she continues, "I'd think he was pursuing you, what with how often he likes to provoke an argument."  
  
If Hugh were drinking something, he'd have choked on it. This time, he does make a face. It must be a good one too, because it almost gets Dr. S'Arrael to smile.  
  
"Anyway, what is it this time?" she asks, pulling up a configuration through the holo-projector. "Cosmic dust that could be Borg, radiation signature that could be Borg, or metal fragment found buried at the bottom of a lake for one-thousand years that could be Borg?"  
  
"Space blip that could be Borg," Hugh tucks the data-pad under his arm and joins her at her desk.  
  
"A classic," she says, then looks at him through the translucent skeletal structure of a Klingon. "I hope you told him to shove his business somewhere personal?"  
  
As often as Hugh has dreamed about doing that very thing, he raises a brow at her. "Do you want to give him an excuse to come marching through the Artifact?"  
  
"Let him come," she makes a note on her data-pad, "That way, he can see what real work looks like."  
  
Hugh can't help but roll his eyes. He doesn't want Dorsey to step foot on this cube unless it's to tell him personally that he's retiring. Dr. S'Arrael gives him a look from under the bangs of her traditional, if not old-fashioned, V-shaped bowl-cut.  
  
"Don't roll your eyes like some child reaching his first stage of maturity," she jabs, "Your fake one is likely to fall out of your head."  
  
"Then I will gift it to you to as an ornament for your desk," Hugh offers with a wave of his hand, "There it will stand as a reminder that you told me so."  
  
Dr. S'Arrael frowns, unamused. "It's a shame you were never able to fully reclaim your self-awareness from assimilation. To think you go about your day convinced you're funny. Very sad. You should hire someone to ensure your fellow drones don't become as delusional."  
  
As abrasive as she is, Hugh has come to enjoy his banter with Dr. S'Arrael. She was already on the Artifact, head of her division, when Hugh came on as Executive Director. She'd made it very clear the moment Hugh introduced himself to her that she wasn't there to be his friend. She was a doctor, and a scientist, and she was there because the Reclamation Project offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study and understand one of the greatest known threats to the universe. She took pride in her work, and she would do it well, but holding hands and consoling tears was for psychiatrists.  
  
True to her word, Dr. S'Arrael's work was unparalleled. While she was colder to their patients than Hugh liked, her apathy towards the xBs as individuals never something she bothered to hide, it was her dedication that mattered.  
  
Even more so, when Hugh returned to find her still on the Artifact. Ankle-deep in scattered data-pads, holo-projectors, and broken equipment, Hugh remembers her cursing the Tal Shiar, the Zhat Vash, and the Romulan Star Empire with every unsalvageable piece.  
  
"Look at all this waste," she'd said to him like he hadn't disappeared for days, "Months of research, gone! And for what? Superstition masquerading as news? This," she'd held up the ruined prototype replacement for a cortical node- a major breakthrough the team had been preparing to celebrate. "This was news. Now it is _nothing_."  
  
When most the others had gone, Dr. S'Arrael stayed, and Hugh was glad to have her.  
  
"Ah, yes," Hugh says to her, "How could I forget the humor Romulans are so known for?"  
  
Dr. S'Arrael's eyebrow threatens to disappear beneath her bangs. "Romulan humor is ingrained in strategy and intellect. It's subtitles are bound to be lost on Humans, or whatever race you come from."  
  
"I'll have you know plenty of people think I'm funny," Hugh smiles a bit cheekily.  
  
With a shake of the head, Dr. S'Arrael throws the musculature structure over the Klingon diagram. "Speaking of the one person who may find you the slightest bit amusing, where's your Shadow today?"  
  
Hugh doesn't blush at the nickname bestowed upon Elnor by Dr. S'Arrael but it's a near thing. It's become popular enough that most others on the Artifact refer to Elnor by that as well, and of course, Elnor likes it.  
  
"Continuing his lessons with Eva," Hugh's careful to say. Dr. S'Arrael's never given a real indication that she knows about Hugh's infatuation, but everything is so secretive with Romulans. Information is a formidable weapon, especially to her, and she could very well be saving it for a day when she needs a leg up in one of their disagreements.  
  
"Why?" he asks. Elnor has been out of the main lab for nearly two weeks, Hugh has a right to be suspicious of Dr. S'Arrael asking now.  
  
"He might be good to use around," she offers nonchalantly.  
  
"I thought you didn't like him in the lab?" Hugh presses.  
  
"I don't," Dr. S'Arrael agrees haughtily, "The boy is too inquisitive for his own good. Leans over the shoulder with no concept of personal space. Asks question after question. Tries to _touch_ things. It's very trying."  
  
Hugh found it endearing, and the fact that Elnor's relatively minor curiosity annoyed Dr. S'Arrael to such an extent amused him to no end.  
  
"Regardless," she continues with less bite, "He's good for manual labor, and we can always use that."  
  
With the way she says it, Hugh doesn't bother to restrain his sigh. He rests his hands on the desk and tries to keep the exhaustion at bay. "Who's leaving now?"  
  
Dr. S'Arrael's upper lip quirks downward in the closest approximation to empathy she's capable of. "Tolpar and T'Tal. They plan to take the transport that's arriving in fifteen hours."  
  
Hugh nods. T'Tal he had anticipated. He'd initially come on the Artifact as an assistant to another doctor, but with his wife expecting and the overworking, Hugh had known the man wasn't going to extend his stay. Tolpar, however, had given no indication he wanted to leave, and as a senior xenologist, he wasn't going to be easy to replace.  
  
The Project was hemorrhaging staff and Hugh has no idea what to do. So much of his time after his return was spent on putting the Artifact back together, yet with every problem he managed to solve, another three would appear. It was like trying to staunch an avulsion with a strip of tape.  
  
He should have known better. He should have had some contingency in place, a plan for when things eventually went wrong... because they always went wrong, didn't they? A few years of cooperation, of everything running smoothly, and Hugh had forgotten his second most important lesson:  
  
Things will go wrong in any situation, if given the chance.  
  
Hugh had gotten comfortable, and he gave them the chance. He'd been optimistic, let his guard down, and now his people were suffering for it. Why didn't he ever learn?  
  
"Enough of that," Dr. S'Arrael says sharply, "Standing there feeling guilty is only good for wasting time. Do you have time to waste?"  
  
"No," Hugh says softly, because she's right. Even on their best day, time was too precious.  
  
"And neither do I," she sniffs and sends the mock-up of her Klingon anatomy configuration to her data-pad. "Now, help me sort through the drones on the list for today. Gamma shift starts in an hour."  
  
Hugh pushes down the guilt he hasn't stopped feeling since Narissa shot down Anomo, an xB who just the day prior had given himself a name, and then proceeded to order the deaths of every single other xB in the room because Hugh refused to talk.  
  
He skims through his data-pad and begins to assign the Borg designations from the selected cell to the appropriate surgeons.  
  
Yezai, Tenth of Twelve, Rirna, Ben, L'Dekt, Fifth of Six, Light, Jori Hadar, Qol... Hugh remembers all of their names, their faces. They had been confused. Afraid. Most of them were so newly reclaimed, they wouldn't have understood what that woman and her armed soldiers meant. Wouldn't have known that their lives were to be taken a second time.  
  
In the deepest, darkest parts of his mind, Hugh wonders if, in their last moments, they believed he would be able to keep them safe.  
  
He wonders when they realized he hadn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh's day-to-day as Executive Director aboard the Artifact is explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got busy today and wasn't able to upload this chapter 'til now. It's still very much Sunday in my time-zone.
> 
> I'm excited because after this chapter, it gets into a lot of the stuff that inspired me to write out an entire story. Also, a fair bit of my writing involves what I remember and gratuitous Memory Alpha searches. No beta, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> I thank everyone for the comments, kudos, and all! Please continue to let me know, I do enjoy feedback.

  
Hugh's day continues in the main reclamation lab well into Alpha shift. The number of Borg they've been able to reclaim has dropped significantly. Without the staff to sustain productivity, their figures aren't even a sixth of what they had been before the attack.  
  
He would have stayed. With every xB who opened their eyes for the first time as an individual, Hugh's resolve would burn that much brighter. All it took was the thought of just one more. Just one more life to discover, and he could stave off the exhaustion. He could stave off the guilt. His hands remained sure and steady, his focus clear.  
  
But just before Dr. S'Arrael left as Alpha shift started, she'd pulled aside her replacement, Dr. Glen Arleth, and had a quick conversation with him conveniently beyond Hugh's earshot. After which came increasing iterations of, "You know, I think we should have enough assistance to deal with today's reclamations," accompanied by a not-so-subtle look to him across the operating table.  
  
So he wasn't chased out of his own lab, Hugh relented with a good-natured sigh. "I'll check up on your progress later today, then?" he'd said, and Glen nodded enthusiastically.  
  
That was fine, there was always more to be done, and Hugh had plenty of other duties to attend to, just as crucial. The process to reclaiming xBs was long and varied. Unbeknownst to many, the physical reclamation was the easiest part.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"How are you today?"  
  
The young man across from Hugh stares blankly at the question, but that's fine. This is their third meeting in as many weeks, and Hugh has yet to be given a forthright answer. These things take time, and some are more amiable to it than others, but Hugh hopes to reach a break-through soon.  
  
Hugh waits patiently, his empty hands resting on crossed legs. He doesn't keep a data-pad or any such note-taking instruments anymore. He refuses to make his patients feel like they are being studied as opposed to being listened too.  
  
They sit in silence. The young man continues to stare. Hugh continues to wait. It is important, Hugh has come to learn, for one to answer in their own time. Eventually, the young man realizes Hugh is not going to elaborate or ask another question.  
  
"We... are operational."  
  
Hugh smiles. "And what do you define as operational, Ninth of Nine?"  
  
Ninth of Nine glances away. He looks distinctly out of place, sitting on the small sofa in Hugh's office. The iris of his optical device dilates, processing.  
  
"We are ready to preform our designated function," he says, trying for all the world to sound as impassive as is expected of the Borg.  
  
"And what is your designated function?" Their sessions have followed this same vein every time, so Hugh already knows the answer.  
  
"To assimilate. To further the Collective," Ninth of Nine answers, somehow both hesitant and confident, latching onto the one thing he is familiar with, the core reason for all Borg to be.  
  
"That used to be your function," Hugh corrects gently, "You are no longer connected to the Collective. What is your function now?"  
  
Unable to answer, Ninth of Nine looks away. Every time, Hugh is struck by how young Ninth of Nine is. His exact age has yet to be determined, but Hugh can't imagine him being much older than Hugh was when first discovered by the _Enterprise_. He himself must have looked just as uncertain, just as lost, and Hugh remembers clinging so very desperately to the Borg identity, because it was all he knew. For someone to take away that familiarity and say there is more is utterly terrifying in impossible ways.  
  
"It's alright to be scared," Hugh says, and the fingers of Ninth of Nine's non-prosthetic hand twitch.  
  
"We are not scared. We are Borg."  
  
"You aren't Borg anymore." It's difficult to understand, even more so to accept, and Hugh watches as the Borg drone behaviors Ninth of Nine hides behind begin to waiver. It's not much, but it is progress.  
  
"We want to return to the Collective." There is a tremble in his voice now, a hint of anger no Borg could ever feel. Anger, for someone just coming into themselves, can be dangerous, certainly, but Hugh knows the anger is a thin veil for fear.  
  
"You can't return to the Collective," Hugh says, "This cube suffered submatrix collapse. There was a defect, and the Collective does not allow defects to spread." Much like newly gained individuality spreading throughout a small scout ship so many years ago, slowly infecting the Borg upon it, and the Collective cutting them off the instant the disorder was discovered, leaving them to die. "Any drone assigned here attempting to rejoin would be destroyed."  
  
Ninth of Nine's fingers curl into a fist. "...it would be better than this."  
  
The admission is one Hugh is intimately familiar with. "Would death really be so much better?"  
  
Hugh remains calmly seated as Ninth of Nine stands suddenly. He hovers, uncertain, agitated. The pistons in his prosthetic arm shift almost anxiously. "Yes."  
  
Of course that would be the answer, because once upon a time Hugh believed much the same. Better to be lost to oblivion, than trapped inside one's own mind. "We do not want this," Ninth of Nine says. Then, as if caged, he begins to pace the small length of Hugh's office. "Why do you do this to us?"  
  
"I'm trying to help you, Ninth of Nine." Even if Ninth of Nine doesn't want to hear it, Hugh hopes he conveys the honesty of his words. "When the Borg assimilated us, they took away who we were, who we are, and I want us to be able to find that again. I want you to be able to find that again."  
  
If only the process was as easily done as said. Individualism is not so easy to reclaim.  
  
With a lurch, Ninth of Nine stops at Hugh's desk. He stares, lost, until his breathing picks up. His body shakes, the plates of his armor shifting against each other, and Hugh stands, ready in case this turns into a panic attack. It's happened more often than he can say.  
  
"You do this so we can be like you?" Ninth of Nine asks in a strangled voice.  
  
He picks up a picture frame with a trembling hand. The picture is one of the very few personal items Hugh keeps. Ninth of Nine looks at it, and like flipping a switch, his face twists with anger.   
  
"We do not want to be like you!" he screams and throws the frame across the room. It hits the far wall and shatters, raining glass and metal onto the floor.  
  
Hugh doesn't move. It isn't the first time something has been thrown in his office, and it's nice that this is one of the times where that something wasn't thrown at him. But he does watch Ninth of Nine carefully as the boy struggles to regain his breath, his whole body quivering with anger.  
  
The doors to his office swish open, and a Romulan security guard steps in. He eyes the remains of Hugh's picture frame with his hand on the phaser holstered at his side. Hugh would ban every weapon aboard this cube if it was in his power to do so.  
  
"We're fine," Hugh says to the guard tersely. Ninth of Nine isn't even aware someone entered the room. "Thank you."  
  
The security guard scowls at Hugh and eyes Ninth of Nine like one would a dangerous animal. Without throwing something himself, Hugh points to the door, making his message perfectly clear. The guard sneers and makes a show of leaving the office back to his post, his hand on the phaser the entire time.  
  
Thankfully, Eva walks in just as the guard leaves. She briefly takes in the scene, but otherwise doesn't intervene.  
  
Beneath the exo-skeleton, the cybernetics, the tubes and wires and implants, an angry, scared young man alone for the first time in his new life stands in the middle of Hugh's office. Hugh is exceptionally mindful as he approaches him.  
  
Ninth of Nine stares down at his hands, seemingly oblivious of anything. Only when Hugh is close enough to reach out and touch him if he wanted to does Ninth of Nine react.  
  
"Do not touch us," he warns. Hugh keeps his hands clasped in front of him where Ninth of Nine can see.  
  
"I won't," Hugh promises, "All I want is to help you, Ninth of Nine."  
  
"Help us?" Ninth of Nine looks at Hugh fully for the first time this session. His eyes are still a piercing green against the color slowly returning to his skin, and they glare at Hugh with undeniable contempt. "How can you help us? Others have been lost. You did not help them."  
  
It hurts.  
  
It's a black spire right through his heart for every person lost, and Hugh isn't sure what to say. There really isn't an answer, because Ninth of Nine's words pierce with a terrible accuracy only the truth can have.  
  
But Hugh does his best to keep his head high, his expression composed. Ninth of Nine is lashing out, desperate to hurt because he is hurting. Hugh reacting to an anticipated emotional response will only encourage Ninth of Nine to continue his behavior without understanding it.  
  
From across the room, Eva makes a gesture, and Hugh nods reluctantly. Their time is up for the day.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ninth of Nine," Hugh says and it feels like cowardice. Eva walks over to Ninth of Nine's side. "But we will have to continue this next week."  
  
Ninth of Nine stares at Hugh a moment longer, then turns away with a grimace. Being one of the very few who can, Eva taps Ninth of Nine once on the shoulder to get his attention.   
  
"Come on, Nines," she says brightly, the spots of her Trill heritage wrinkling around the corners of her eyes as she smiles at him. Ninth of Nine's glower only deepens.  
  
"We are not Nines. We are Ninth of Nine, Tactical Drone of Trimatrix 541," he responds, less angry if not irritated. But he does follow her as she leads him out of Hugh's office.   
  
For reasons that are her own, Eva refused any cosmetic procedures beyond the removal of her implants, thus her body was still hairless, and her skin a shade too pale. She retains some physical characteristics of when she was fully Borg, and the new xBs tend to be more comfortable around her because of it.  
  
Familiarity, even skin deep, it still something. While most days, Hugh feels he plays a poor impression of "normal", never completely comfortable in his reclaimed skin. Perhaps, new xBs like Ninth of Nine can sense that.  
  
Hugh kneels down in front of the broken picture frame and begins to meticulously pick up shards of glass. He hears Eva as she steps back inside and stops somewhere behind him.  
  
"He's just angry," she offers after it's been too quiet, "But we all were, in the beginning. It's not at you, it's at everyone. Everything." Hugh nods absentmindedly to be polite. "It's- Director," she breathes, then broaches a topic Hugh has done his best to avoid with her, "Hugh, it wasn't your fault."  
  
Glass gathers in his palm with crystalline clinks. "My being or not being at fault," _He was though. He was at fault_ , "isn't the crux of the matter. He believes it's true."  
  
The picture isn't damaged. That's good. "He heard what happened from someone, Eva. A doctor, or a guard, maybe? Fellow xBs? If others can't trust me to help them, to protect them, how could I ask him to?"  
  
"They... Hugh, there is no one who doesn't think you did everything you could."  
  
Hugh turns to her with a lopsided smile. "Can you tell me with absolute certainty that there isn't a single individual on this cube, xB or otherwise, that believes I am even the slightest bit at fault?" He walks over to his desk, each step so heavy. "They wanted Dr. Asha, who was protected by Picard. Then they wanted Picard, who was protected by me. I refused to give either of them up."  
  
"Loyalty to your friends doesn't mean you are not also loyal to us," Eva says, shoulders squared, "Can I speak for everyone on the Artifact? No. But all here know how much you care, and what you sacrifice. If Nines chooses to interpret the Zhat Vash ambush that way, then it will be all the better when he sees it's not true."  
  
"I suppose," Hugh says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. They could talk this in circles, and while Eva looks up to the task, Hugh most definitely is not. At least not right now. "But I assume you didn't come here just to save me from my patients?  
  
Eva frowns, but she's kind enough to let him slink away. "I came to remind you about your appointment."  
  
"Appointment?" Oh no, what's he forgotten now? "Did I schedule someone after Ninth of Nine? Or- we're not having a visit, are we?" The occasional Romulan dignitary has been known to check in on the project from time to time, not to mention Dorsey's favorite past time of sending over a Starfleet official and not telling Hugh until an hour before their expected arrival.  
  
"No, no," Eva is quick to assure as Hugh dumps the glass into a small recycler, "Just lunch, but I thought it would be best for me to come get you, rather than a certain someone having to track you down."  
  
Hugh breathes. Elnor. He'd nearly forgotten Elnor. He really should set alarms through his data-pad if his internal clock was going to be this unreliable. "He hasn't been waiting long, has he?"  
  
"No. He's very curious about Alpha Centauri," Eva says, "We were discussing the balances of a trinary system. When he realized the time, he was afraid he was the one who was going to be late."  
  
There's an amused glint to her eye Hugh's convinced is genetic to the Trill race. He'd seen it in Dr. Kunamadestifee the few times they'd spoken. In Eva, he finds he can't meet it, and she comes over to him.  
  
"He's not upset," Eva places a hand on him arm, grip deceptively firm for a hand so delicate, "He may be worried, but then, he wouldn't be the only one."  
  
Hugh pats her hand gently. "You don't need to be worried about me."  
  
"Well, I'm going to anyway," Eva squeezes his arm and lets go, "You work the hardest of us all, and I have more than enough worry to go around."  
  
He shakes his head. "Will you let Elnor know I'll be right there? I just need to finish cleaning up."  
  
Eva looks at the picture in his hand with a smile and nods before departing. Hugh waits for the doors to close behind her to sit down. If he found any comfort in drinking, he'd have likely developed a serious habit by now.  
  
He'll have to get a new frame for his picture. Unfortunate, as their replicators won't have a pattern for it, and it's probable that any incoming transports wouldn't have one either. Holo-images are the standard, and something for a physical image will have to be special ordered.  
  
Hugh looks down at the photo of himself, taken just after his first major surgery. On his right is Geordi, his at-the-time brand-new cybernetic eyes blue and bright, and on his left is Beverly, her red hair curling about her face with fiery elegance. Both of their smiles are big and cheerful, while between them Hugh looks positively meek in comparison.  
  
He'd been lonely while staying at a medical facility, living in a strange place surround by people he didn't really know who didn't really like him. But Geordi and Beverly had surprised him, showing up unannounced, and Hugh had never been happier.  
  
"Of course we'd be here, Hugh," Geordi had said, "This is a big day for you. We weren't gonna miss it for the world!"  
  
Hugh remembers the moment, waking up after the procedure in an extremely tight, not to mention embarrassing in hindsight, bodysuit needed to allow his physique time to adjust to the removal of his exo-skeletal armor. Geordi had asked how he was doing multiple times, ("I feel lighter, Geordi,") and Beverly checked over his vitals constantly ("Beverly, my armor did not support any life-functions. I am not in danger of dying.").  
  
In the midst of the newness, Geordi had pulled out a small recording device and drew Hugh to his side with an arm around his shoulder while Beverly did the same on his other side. "Smile!" Geordi had said, and when he and Beverly looked at the device and smiled, Hugh followed suit.  
  
Before they'd left, Geordi had gifted Hugh the picture. "Traditional photos weren't something I could appreciate before the eyes," Geordi had said, "But I like them, and I thought you might too."  
  
It was the second thing Hugh had ever been given, the first being his name. The picture was treasured like nothing else, and it has not left Hugh's side since.  
  
Life was much simpler back then. A time when Hugh thought he could take out all that was Borg and be happy. But there were still pieces of him that couldn't be removed, and his happiness became more complicated- a responsibility that was not fair to place solely upon his two friends.  
  
He was much more hopeful, back then.  
  
For safekeeping, Hugh places the picture face-down in the center drawer of his desk and closes it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The commissary is an interesting area. Hugh likes it and dislikes it for the same reasons: he can glean information from the social interaction in a way he may not be able to outright ask. Are the xBs acclimating well to eating food? Are they comfortable in large groups? Are they trying to communicate, to interact?  
  
On the other hand, whenever Hugh steps into the commissary for a meal, the first thing he sees is the divide. It's a clear line bisecting the room where the xBs sit to eat, and the non-xBs sit to eat. It was disheartening when Hugh initially noticed it, that even after so much work, there was still such distrust. But he can't force people to socialize.  
  
As easy as it would be to blame on prejudice, Hugh knows the non-Borg personnel aren't entirely responsible. Even before the attack, the xBs were wary of others, no longer able to understand them in the way they were accustomed. Now, the dichotomy held an unquestionable tension to it despite how hard Hugh worked to get everything back to normal.  
  
There were still the few outliers. The engineering sector tended to get along well, and often times their group would mingle somewhere in the middle of the line. Occasionally, a physician would work with an xB over food, helping them rediscover nutritional needs. A Vulcan therapist had brought a game of Kal-Toh and left it in the commissary to be played, and sometimes Hugh would see an xB and non-xB curious enough to try it together.  
  
And, certainly the biggest outlier of them all, was Elnor, seated comfortably at the table he and Hugh had unintentionally claimed as their own. His tray of food hasn't been touched. In fact, there was a second untouched tray across from him. A tingling warmth spreads pleasantly through his chest at Elnor's thoughtfulness, followed quickly by the sharp guilt from making him wait.  
  
Hugh walks over to the table, followed by an assortment of, "Hello, sir,", "Hello, Director,", and, "Hello, Hugh,". Elnor sees him and lights up.  
  
"I'm sorry," Hugh sits down, "It's no excuse, but I lost track of time."  
  
"There is no need," Elnor smiles at him, no sign that he's bothered by Hugh's tardiness, only happy to see him, and gestures to the tray at Hugh's seat, "I hope you do not mind?"  
  
"Of course not, you've saved me a trip to the replicator," Hugh says, "But you know you don't need to wait for me to eat."  
  
"It is how it is for Qowat Milat," Elnor picks up his fork, "At the temple, none would eat until all were present. It was to ensure everyone had food, that no one would go hungry."  
  
Elnor has told him about the difficulties early in his life on Vashti after Federation Aid had stopped. It would make sense to wait so that everyone got their fair share. Still, the guilt burrows that much deeper.  
  
Hugh gets ready to dig into his veklava and, oh, is this...? "Elnor, please tell me you didn't spend a replicator ticket on oskoid." A Betazoid delicacy like oskoid may have even cost two.  
  
And Hugh would know. It's been something of a weakness ever since he first tried it.  
  
"I did," Elnor says and quickly takes a bite of food.  
  
"Elnor, those are your tickets. You're supposed to use them for yourself." There wasn't a shortage of energy for replicators on the Artifact, but the food patterns were extremely basic to keep the strain off reconfigured technology. Tickets were allotted to staff and xBs when they wanted something less readily available, but were only given out every couple months.  
  
"I did not need it," Elnor responds without an ounce of regret, "But I thought you might enjoy it," and then, without preamble, "You have not been taking care of yourself."  
  
This was beginning to sound familiar. "Do you and Eva actually chart stars in the astrometrics lab or just talk about me?"  
  
"Both," Elnor answers honestly and Hugh sighs.  
  
"Elnor, you don't have to worry about me. I'm fine. _Tired_ ," he stresses at Elnor's skeptical look, "but fine."  
  
"But I do," Elnor says softly, "You take care of all aboard this ship. You give them so much of yourself that there is not enough for you. You do not sleep and you forget to eat. It is not good."  
  
Elnor shouldn't worry about him so much, no matter how selfishly reassuring it is to hear of his concern. "Things were like this before, Elnor. Maybe not to the same degree, but it's nothing different."  
  
Elnor stabs at the greens on his plate. "I do not care if you are accustomed to it," he says, almost petulant, "You should not thin yourself so."  
  
"Everyone is running themselves thin, not just me. With what happened after Nari- her," Hugh is quick to correct as the last time he said Narissa's name in Elnor's presence, Elnor's expression turned thunderous and dark in a way he never thought possible.  
  
"Her name should not tarnish your lips," Elnor had said, and Hugh figured it was best to leave it be.  
  
Even now, just hinting at her is like watching a storm eclipse the sun across Elnor's face.  
  
"With what happened after her," Hugh continues, "The Reclamation project has been set back. There are more problems than people to adequately deal with them. The important thing, however, is that we try, and keep trying," and he does believe that. No matter how his unwelcome pessimism may claim otherwise, trying can make all the difference. "And so, I will continue to work later than I should and earlier than I'd like, and yes, I will probably forget to eat properly. In the end, if I am able to benefit even one xB, then it will be worth it. For as long as it takes."  
  
Elnor has the smile again, and Hugh distracts himself with food less his complexion betrays him.  
  
"Your words and actions mirror the nobility of your heart. I am proud to be qualankhkai to you," and Elnor, as disarming with his words as he is with his smile, reaches across and places his hand over the one Hugh isn't using to eat with.  
  
Elnor's hand is warm, his fingers long and smooth save for the callouses along his palm from years of swordsmanship, and Hugh is going to choke to death on his veklava. How terrible a way to go after all he'd been through.  
  
With serious effort, Hugh chews and smiles. Elnor gives him a curious look, but doesn't remove his hand.  
  
"What is on your mind?" he asks, misconstruing Hugh's discomfort as something else.  
  
 _You_ Hugh wants to say as much as he doesn't. His lack of response prompts Elnor further.  
  
"You may talk to me of your troubles," Elnor says ardently, "I may not always be able to help, but I will always listen." His grip on Hugh's hand tightens. It's as strong as one would think a warrior's hand to be, yet with an unexpected tenderness, and Hugh finds himself giving into it. But only just a little.  
  
"I guess I have been a little...," he searches for the least problematic word, aware of the people around them, "stressed. There are days that are hard. But I suppose it wouldn't be much of a hopeless cause if there weren't?"  
  
Elnor places a finger to his chin in thought. "Do you know why Qowat Milat warriors seek out hopeless causes?"  
  
Hugh actually isn't sure. Different cultures swear themselves to different things. He picks one at random, partially embarrassed he's never asked. "Because it poses a challenge?"  
  
A smile plays at Elnor's lips but he shakes his head. "No, though that is often an effect. At the core of what we are taught, Qowat Milat fight for what is hopeless because we do not consider that there is anything truly without hope. For a cause is only hopeless when it is no longer believed in."  
  
There's a reasoning in the statement that Hugh figures isn't translating correctly. He doesn't want to be rude, and he certainly doesn't want to offend, but it seems to be some strange combination of contradiction and disregard. The Qowat Milat only bind themselves to hopeless causes, but don't actually believe they exist?  
  
Hugh's confusion shows, because Elnor smiles down towards his plate. "You do not understand, but I am not making myself clear. It is difficult to explain when I have known this for so long," he pauses for a moment, "Think of like this; I know it was in part to assuage his guilt, but say Picard came to Vashti only ask help of the Qowat Milat. Why would he do this?"  
  
Hugh feels like the question is not meant to be over-thought, so he goes with the simple answer. "Because he has a hopeless cause."  
  
"Is it though?"  
  
"Yes?" Hugh's not confident, but the spirited shine in Elnor's eyes tells him he doesn't expect Hugh to know. Not yet anyway. It's not condescension, it's anticipation, and Hugh's eager to see where this goes.  
  
"How so?" Elnor asks, "He came to us for help, yet if his cause was surely hopeless, why would he bother? What could we do if nothing could be done?"  
  
Oh. Hugh smiles as the logic of it slides into place, and he understands. "Because despite the unknowable odds and obstacles with only a small ship and fragile crew at his side, Picard still had faith it could be done. If he thought it was hopeless, he would have given up."  
  
Said in that way, it's curiously simple.  
  
Elnor grins at him and grips with the hand Hugh's nearly forgotten was atop his own. "Difficult and impossible are not the same. The difference lies in how it is viewed."  
  
"You're very wise," Hugh says because he can't help it. How easy it is to forget, with all his degrees and certificates, which seem to be good for gathering dust where they are displayed along the wall of his office, that there is so much more to learn, and Elnor has his whole life of unique perspectives to share. It's the beauty of individuality.  
  
Green dusts Elnor's cheeks as he ducks his head at the compliment and it's lovely. "It is merely wisdom that has been taught to me. Even now, I can find myself a student to it's teachings." He glances at Hugh, no different than usual, but Hugh's heart stutters treacherously, ignorant of the obvious.  
  
If only for his own sake, he wishes he could stop it.  
  
"How so?" Hugh feels compelled to ask.  
  
"When I was child," Elnor starts, a wistful note as he speaks. It's always there whenever he mentions his childhood. "I knew that in training to become Qowat Milat, I would never be fully accepted, a fact decided by birth. It was, in no other terms, hopeless." The pain, while faded, is still there. Hugh understands all too well, being an outsider among kin through no fault of oneself.  
  
"But," Elnor continues, shining against the hurt of his past, "I realized my way of thinking was against the very belief of what I was being taught. So, I continued to train and to learn. My sisters did not treat me less, nor the nuns. They saw that I was unwavering to our teachings, and in my conviction I found my way. If I had lost myself to what was hopeless, I would not have given my sword to Picard's cause. I would not have left Vashti, I would not have met the _La Sirena_ crew, I would not have helped save Coppelius... I would not be here."  
  
"My hope," Elnor says quieter, "lead me to you." The idle chatter and sounds of dining around them dim as this time, when Elnor holds his gaze, Hugh thinks he sees _something_. It's hidden within the dark color of Elnor's eyes, swirling around amber streaks and glinting against the flecks of bronze.  
  
Hugh doesn't know what it is, and that frightens him.  
  
He can't indulge this. He can't project what he wants in the hopes of seeing it returned. He needs to draw a line as distinct as the one in the room he sits. If there is something, Hugh is the one misinterpreting it. Elnor is open with his emotions in a way Hugh isn't used to with most people, much less other Romulans, and he isn't going to take advantage of it just to fill some lonely pit within himself.  
  
As naturally as he can, Hugh moves his hand out from under Elnor's with the pretense of using a napkin, even though it's been long enough since has last took a bite that his food has cooled.  
  
"Well, I'm glad you're here," it sounds inadequate to what Elnor has shared with him, "You're every part a Qowat Milat warrior, and you're right to believe in yourself."  
  
Elnor looks to Hugh's hand, now safely on his side of the table. There might be the beginnings of a frown, but it never comes, and Elnor otherwise doesn't seem bothered. "Thank you, but this was more for you to know, my friend, not to give up hope. No matter how difficult the days become, your work is cherished."  
  
Friend. Hugh holds onto that word for all it's worth. "I know. Really, I do. But I appreciate the support."  
  
"Of course," Elnor says, "As my Bonded, it is my duty to you to help you as needed, be that protection, or offering encouragement, or reminding you to eat. Know that as you take care of all here, I will take care of you."  
  
"You don't need to take care of me," Hugh says, more exasperated than he means.  
  
"Alas," a smirk pulls at the corner of Elnor's mouth, "You should not have accepted me as qalankhkai, then."  
  
The absolute cheek. "You've been spending too much time with Eva."  
  
"At your suggestion," Elnor counters, and Hugh laughs.  
  
"Fine, fine. I accept the consequences of my actions," he picks up the oskoid off his plate and rips off a small piece of the leaf. The sap is sweet against his tongue, and he firmly thinks of _friend_. "Tell me what you learned about Alpha Centauri."  
  
Elnor launches into a description of his lesson with effortless delight. His eyes are bright, and his face animated. He recounts the stars and the planets, even the various space stations and outposts, eager to share every new fact. Hugh listens, lets himself be Hugh for a small while, not Director. Lets Elnor's elation wash over him for the remainder of his lunch, until he can put off his responsibilities no longer, and eventually leaves the solace of Elnor's company.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Almost twenty-two hours since leaving, Hugh returns to his room.  
  
More like shuffles in, but how he moves once his door is closed is his own business.  
  
He'd revisited Dr. Arleth as promised, helping the reclamations through to the next shift change. Then he'd been called to the engineering sector to mediate a dispute between the Romulan and Bolian leads. Afterwards was a call to one of the heads of the Romulan Free State for their weekly check-in, a tension between them Hugh doesn't bother to smooth-over since the Tal Shiar take over. Thankfully, the conferences are kept strictly business and to the point.  
  
Once concluded, Hugh was able to see off Tolpar and T'Tal. Although they were leaving, he was grateful for their help nonetheless. Their goodbyes were stiff, professional, but if they left with a good impression of Hugh, of the Borg Reclamation Project, then it was all he could hope for that they might return, or suggest to peers to visit.  
  
The transport had brought a new xenolinguist from Earth, and Hugh had taken the opportunity to give the man a brief tour. When they'd finished, Hugh guided him to the area for staff quarters, and then left to oversee the final stage of deconstruction to the cube's Borg nursery - a moment he was very happy to witness.  
  
So much in one day, and he'll have to continue it tomorrow. Tired. He's very tired.  
  
From across the room, Hugh's bed sits there, tempting him with soft pillows and warm blankets and a few hours of rest. It would be easy enough to slap on his regenerator and fall face-first into his regeneration-cycle, but he still has to shower, to change, to check his messa-  
  
Damn. In the corner of his room, his terminal awaits. He'd forgotten about Dorsey's report.  
  
Sighing heavily, Hugh drags himself to his desk. He can't put it off, can't give Dorsey the satisfaction.  
  
He sits down and brings up the files. Taking a second to relax into his chair, Hugh runs a hand along the back of his neck, digging into tight muscles with the pads of his fingers and careful to avoid the ports that start just above the base of his cervical spine.  
  
The audio file opens with a beep, and Hugh plays it.  
  
The space blip is a simple pinging noise as far as Hugh can tell, a total of twenty-seven seconds in length. Layered with a few different pitches and ambient tone, it's not unpleasant to listen to. Which is good, as it takes a few run-throughs for the computer to break it down to it's individual elements.  
  
Surprise of all surprises, the space blip appears to be a space blip. Likely subspace white noise from the signal of a passing probe. Hugh glares at his screen, thinking all manner of one sentence reports of his analysis he could turn in.  
  
But Hugh can be petty when he wants to be, and right now, he really, really wants to be petty. He rolls his shoulders, winces at a few unexpected pops, and opens up a blank log. Knowing Dorsey has to read through and sign off on any report turned in to him, Hugh prepares to inspect and document the blip down to the very last millisecond, not one decibel left undefined.  
  
This will be a report to make academy instructors weep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and feelings and all the dangers in-between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who has two thumbs and his internet was down for three days? Bob Kelso.
> 
> Just to be totally transparent, I love me some build-up. I like establishing where characters are and what their arcs need to be. I do apologize if things are moving kind of slow, but they will pick up soon. I also will have other character perspectives in future chapters, exploring them and what-have-you, but as this is a Hugh-centric story with Elnor playing close second, they need their dues.
> 
> Mistakes? Mine.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.

Hugh rests his head in his hands. The dull throb of a headache already looming behind his eyes. In front of him, splayed across his desk, are dozens of reports, data-pads, and forms. It's an insurmountable heap of administration work from transfer requests to reclamation schedules and after a while, like mixing various watercolors over a canvas, it all blurs together.  
  
The lights feel too intense, a florescent white-blue that casts everything with a stark, black shadow. Even closing his eyes he can't escape it, the light seeping in with sharp, radiant spikes. It should be dimmer in here, like it is on the rest of the Artifact. Too much light can agitate the sensitive eyes of xBs after optical surgeries.  
  
How long has Hugh been in his office, the walls closing in on him like a prison? He can't leave until he finishes, but the work is never-ending. It's as if he's being examined from high above, his office the operating table, the light a surgeon's blade, being poked and prodded to see how much he can do until he breaks.  
  
"Hugh?"  
  
Hugh jumps so quickly out of his chair it nearly falls over. He whips around, heart beating wildly, to see Elnor. How hadn't Hugh noticed him coming in?  
  
Elnor looks at him with a concerned frown. "I did not mean to startle you."  
  
The pain in his head flares up. "It's fine," he tries to smile, but it doesn't feel right. Then he notices the tray of food in Elnor's hand. What time is it? "Did I miss lunch?"  
  
Dark eyes regard Hugh silently. It's so bright Elnor's skin seems to glow while his hair rests over his shoulders like ink, making him both ethereal and imposing Hugh's heart hasn't calmed down, and Elnor continues to stare at him.  
  
It's unnerving, and very unlike him. "Elnor?"  
  
Elnor tilts his head, assessing, then steps forward. The back of Hugh's legs hit his desk as Elnor promptly and unnecessarily crowds close to him. There's little more than an inch between them, and the torrent of Hugh's pulse rushes under his skin as Elnor leans over him. Hugh barely hears the soft clack of the tray being set down behind him.  
  
That should be it, but Elnor doesn't move back. Instead, he leaves his hand on the desk near where Hugh grips the edge, effectively angling himself over Hugh. This is too close. Much too close. Hugh can feel the heat that comes off him, a warmth Elnor has kept even after weeks aboard this cold Borg remnant.  
  
The lights above Elnor halo him, and his expression betrays nothing. It's so unlike the openness Hugh has come to know, which is why he's wholly unprepared when Elnor bows his head and kisses him.  
  
Everything stops. The rapid beat of his heart, the headache, the glare of the lights. All of it falls away like sand through his fingers. The only thing left is the tender pressure of Elnor's lips on his own.  
  
Before Hugh can even begin to grasp what's happened, Elnor moves back. Not far, his face still intimately close to Hugh's, but it's enough for Hugh's brain to kick back on. The shock, panic, and confusion start, no one stronger than the other as Hugh stands frozen, looking into unreadable eyes.  
  
Elnor's eyes are many things. Beautiful. Curious. But never unreadable.  
  
This isn't right. It can't be. Hugh has been so careful. Or at least he thought he'd been. His lips tingle, and it takes everything not to lift his hand to them. Even if Elnor figured it out, discovered the feelings Hugh had for him, he- surely, he wouldn't have responded this way.  
  
Unless...  
  
Dread replaces shock and confusion, mixing dangerously with panic.  
  
"Why?" he manages to get out, the thought of oaths and obligations wrapping tightly around his throat. This isn't what he wants, Elnor's affection born of duty, given as if it's expected.  
  
Yet, with his other hand, Elnor cups Hugh's cheek. Deliberately, he runs his thumb along the scar beneath his cybernetic eye. No disgust at the hard lines that mar his face, but a fondness Hugh hasn't dared imagine. "Because I wanted too," Elnor says softly and finally smiles, "Because I thought you might like it." and that strikes Hugh as strangely familiar, but then Elnor kisses him again.  
  
It's warm, and gentle, and so very like Elnor that Hugh's heart flutters, cautiously hopeful. Because Elnor is never anything but honest, and if he says he wants this then... then it would be alright, wouldn't it? As along as Elnor wanted it too, Hugh could have this. He could reach out and finally be pulled toward, not pushed away.  
  
Releasing the vice-grip he has on his desk, Hugh brings a hesitant hand to Elnor's shoulder and the other to his face. That, it seems, is all Elnor needs to snake an arm around his waist and bring them flush together. Hugh lets out a surprised gasp, and Elnor uses the opportunity to slip between his lips.  
  
This is happening fast, but Hugh can't deny the way his body responds. Low in his gut, a fever builds- because with the way his skin feels flush all over, the way his head clouds, it can't be anything else. It draws him to Elnor, promising wonderful things, and Hugh closes his eyes as he eases into it. All he needs to do is let it guide him. For so long he's stopped wanting for things beyond his grasp, yet here Elnor is in his arms, wanting him just the same.  
  
" _Hugh_ ," Elnor whispers reverently. No one has ever said his name in such a away.  
  
They're already impossibly close, but the fever continues to grow, eating away at the cold Hugh has inside. It compels him forward, demanding more. His fingers dig into Elnor's shoulder and he dives into the heat of Elnor's mouth. He swears he tastes the sweetness of oskoid.  
  
Elnor's hand slides along the back of his neck, dips beneath the collar of his uniform, and deftly grazes the sensitive skin near his ports. The sensation is lightning down his spine- dangerous, sensual. Hugh's initial reaction is to jerk back, but Elnor's arm around him holds him tight. The fever, so intense, burns away the unease, leaving only the desire. After all, he wants Elnor closer. Needs Elnor closer.  
  
Incessant, the fever pulls him and Hugh follows obediently. He needs to understand it. He needs to understand how Elnor does this to him. Because it's good, so good, but it's not enough.  
  
Elnor. Beautiful, generous Elnor, who Hugh is so desperate to know completely. They move against each other, the fever all-consuming, and Hugh had never felt more focused and chaotic. He's close to something, but he doesn't know what. Wants them joined, but doesn't know how.  
  
This is too much, but the fever won't let him go. Elnor won't let him go.  
  
And Hugh, clutching to Elnor like he might be torn away, doesn't want to let go.  
  
Instead, he loses himself to the fever as it pulls, and pulls, and pulls something deep from within, enveloping him in inescapable heat. Hugh's body trembles and he holds on tight enough to leave bruises, but the fever churns like a storm. It continues higher and higher, taking Hugh - so close, _so close_ \- until it violently crescendos, like an ocean wave breaking against a rock face.  
  
Abruptly, everything cools. The fever is gone, but his hand burns.  
  
And Elnor isn't moving.  
  
Hugh opens his eyes. The lights are no longer relentlessly bright, but are now almost too dark, and Elnor is shadowed in low grays and hints of green. The arm around his waist goes slack and Hugh leans back as best he can to look at Elnor properly.  
  
His heart stops.  
  
Elnor's eyes stare back at him, glossy and afraid. Thin black veins slowly crawl up his face and Hugh's blood turns to ice. They creep higher, further, and everywhere they spread leaches the golden hue of Elnor's skin, leaving ash. Terrified, Hugh follows the veins to where they start and chokes on a sob.  
  
_No. Please, no._  
  
Burrowed deep into Elnor's throat are assimilation tubules- burnished and needlelike from where they begin at Hugh's own hand.  
  
Frantic, Hugh tries to rip his hand away, but it won't move. He can't let go. The tubules won't retract. His body refuses to listen to him no matter how loudly everything in him screams to get away, to _stop_. He feels the moment Elnor can no longer support his own weight and tries to hold him up, but can only slow his fall. His eyes swim with tears as he's forced to watch Elnor lose himself.  
  
"Help," Hugh's voice comes out small, child-like. Despair takes him as Elnor lies under his hands, skin growing cold, eyes empty. "Someone... please..." he begs, completely and utterly useless over Elnor's prone body. He can see the door of his office, he could call out, but he can't get up, and his cries go no louder than gasps. "Help. We need help."  
  
Hugh buries his face in Elnor's robes, listens as Elnor's breath stutters in his chest until it stops. Then, numb with the horror at what he's done, Hugh hears it.  
  
"We," speaks the one voice of many, "are Borg."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hugh jolts upright, struggling for air. He rips off his regenerator and throws it, losing it to the darkness of his room. His stomach rolls, and he stumbles out of bed, managing to rush to his bathroom in time to vomit into his toilet.  
  
It goes on until there's nothing left, and even then, all it takes is a flash of wide, fearful eyes, decaying skin, and Hugh dry-heaves until his ribs threaten to crack.  
  
After what feels like hours, Hugh is a shivering husk. Sweat coats his skin and his limbs tremble uncontrollably. His nose runs and his eyes water from the strain, the fear, the _what have I done?_ that echoes in his head, even though he knows it wasn't real. The taste of acid and bile lingers in his mouth and along the back of his throat. A cool glass of water might be nice, but his legs are too unstable to stand, much less carry him to the replicator.  
  
They can't be removed. Hugh remembers the doctors saying, telling his younger, more hopeful self that the assimilation tubules are interwoven though the axillary artery and further into the brachial artery. No surgery could be done. They would be a part of him forever.  
  
It was not a problem unique to him, but to all ex-Borg. While upsetting, Hugh knew he could live with it. The tubules were there, but inactive, unusable, and Hugh has treated them as any other remaining implant.  
  
But clearly, he's forgotten the danger. Just because a snake chooses not to bite, doesn't mean it's without it's fangs.  
  
He can't feel them any more than he could feel his cortical node, but the thought of twin metal bursting through his skin is enough for Hugh to secure his left wrist tightly with his right hand and hold it to his chest until the fear and the guilt and the disgusting, shameful, lasting hints of arousal fade.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
When Hugh steps into the main reclamation lab, he's late. Not late for when he usually starts, but late for when he's scheduled to be there. The team is preparing a table, of which half of them look to Hugh as he enters. Dr. S'Arrael finishes laying out her impeccably kept medical tools before she turns to him, a few choice words undoubtedly at the ready.  
  
Despite his best efforts, Hugh must look just as awful as he feels, because whatever Dr. S'Arrael planned to say doesn't make it past the shocked lift of an eyebrow. She recovers quickly enough with a simple "Director Hugh," followed up a stern nod and continues to prepare for their first round of reclamations.  
  
Even though the rest of the team give him side-long glances, Hugh is thankful to get right to work without hassle or questions.  
  
At least for the first few hours. Twice an assistant has bumped into him because Hugh wasn't paying attention. Four times he was asked to hand over an instrument and ended up giving the incorrect one. After the second instance of Nurse S'Tihl addressing him multiple times before he realizes someone is speaking to him, Dr. S'Arrael peels off her gloves right in the middle of cutting through the exo-plating of an older Tellarite drone and throws them into the recycler with more force then necessary.  
  
"Director," she nearly grinds out, "may I have a word?"  
  
Hugh follows her out into the hall. It is not kindness so much as her steadfast sense of professionalism that keeps Dr. S'Arrael from speaking until the doors close.  
  
"Not only are you not contributing to the work being done," she says, not so loud that she might be overheard, but loud enough to empathize her frustration, "but you are actively hindering it. I don't have the time nor patience to accommodate your blundering."  
  
"I'm sorry, Doctor," Hugh says, because he can hardly defend himself. It's honestly surprising she didn't kick him out when he'd first handed-off the exoscalpel instead of the sub-dermal scalpel. "I-"  
  
"Don't," she snaps, "Apologies are for problems that are too late to fix. You over-estimate your own importance. Annoying, yes, but you've caused nothing permanent. You insult me implying I'd let that happen." She then rests her hands on her on her hips, perhaps waiting for a rebuttal, but Hugh has none. He doesn't even have the strength to pretend for appearances' sake.  
  
All he can muster is a thin smile. "I appreciate your tolerance in the matter, Dr. S'Arrael."  
  
Dr. S'Arrael's eyes flicker under the strong ridges of her brow as she studies him, her mouth set in an irritable line. "I don't know what this is. Lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of companionship. I also don't care. But I suggest whatever it is, you take care of it. The only place for you in the lab if you don't will be in a corner overseeing from a safe distance, and we already have enough bureaucrats with as much usefulness as houseplants associated to this project."  
  
Hugh opens his mouth to assure her, but Dr. S'Arrael stops him with a quick hand. "No promises," she states firmly, but her irritation seems to have cooled. "Only results."  
  
"Of course, Doctor," Hugh lets out with a small breath of ease.  
  
Nothing more to say, Dr. S'Arrael leaves with a turn of her proud, Romulan head, and Hugh is alone in an empty hall.  
  
He should go find something to do, but trying to busy himself in another department would likely bring about the same problems, and Hugh would prefer not make himself an inconvenience all over the Artifact.  
  
He could go to his office. It would be easy enough for anyone who needed him to find him there, but he'd rather call up Dorsey and ask him about his day. Ex-Borg have near eidetic memory, a residual effect of their learning and adaptive programming, and it's why dreams, or in his case, nightmares, are often experienced in such vivid detail. Hugh doesn't want to return to a room where just a few hours before Elnor had lay helpless.  
  
It wasn't real. Just an involuntary succession of images played out in his subconscious, no doubt further compounded by stress and lack of proper regeneration. But Hugh can still feel the edge of his desk digging into the back of his legs, the sound of his data-pad skittering across the surface from the force. Can see black hair fanned out on the floor, covering scuff marks he's never really noticed.  
  
Sickly, black veins branching along a sharp jaw.  
  
Eyes glazing over as the joy in them is snuffed out.  
  
His left hand starts trembling.  
  
No.  
  
He has to stop. It didn't happen. It wasn't real.  
  
Hugh lets his head rest against the wall. The smart thing to do is to reassure himself, and the easiest way to do that would be to see Elnor, bright and healthy, where the only thing Borg about him is the company he keeps. That would put to rest Hugh's immediate anxiety now, and he can deal with the underlying issues later.  
  
Before he can find an excuse not to, Hugh sends a quick message to Eva.  
  
The tremor of his hand lessens, but doesn't entirely stop.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hundreds of stars fill the room, vibrant pinks the color of the florets that grew along the banks of the D'ihaiy River and the deep purples of the gems his father gifted his mother on the anniversary of their marriage encasing them, filling the spaces between them, sheer iridescence against the black velvet of space.  
  
Elnor nearly feels a child again, sneaking out of the temple late at night with his sisters to dance through a field of sunbugs.  
  
"It is strange to think the galaxy is so big," he says. A holographic star fizzles briefly as he runs his hand through it. "That this is only a small section of it."  
  
From her places at the controls, Eva smiles. "Even stranger that there trillions of these galaxies within the known universe?" she offers, the numerous colors of the galaxy shining gently on her skin and spots.  
  
Elnor always knew the universe was infinite, but put into perspective makes it such a marvel to behold. "Do you think it could all be charted? One day?"  
  
"I don't know," Eva says thoughtfully, "It could be possible, but it would be well outside either of our lifetimes. Even then, I don't think I'd want it to. Mystery makes for exploration, and there's not much mystery in knowing where everything is."  
  
"And would you want to go out and explore?"  
  
"Maybe," she says in a way that tells Elnor she would, "But I am more than happy to explore through these stars for now. Tracing this cube's journey is an expedition all it's own. There is information here that could compare to _Voyager's_ time in the Delta Quadrant," she grins at him, "We only have to discover it."  
  
Elnor returns her grin, Eva's enthusiasm always pleasant to join in. He continues to walk about the holographic galaxy displayed in the astrometrics lab, occasionally tapping on stars that capture his interest and reading the information about them that appears in response.  
  
There is a beep from Eva's data-pad. Elnor has one, gifted to him by Hugh and shown how to use it, but he prefers to keep it in his room during his days. He finds he has very little need for it, and any questions he has are simply asked to those around him. After a moment, Eva speaks. "Feel like an early lunch?"  
  
"But Hugh would not be ready." Because lunch is when they have promised their time to each other, and Elnor does not like to go without Hugh.  
  
"That was him," she taps the glass of the data-pad with her nail. "He's asking if you'd like to meet him now, assuming he isn't interrupting of course."  
  
Elnor cannot contain his delight. Hugh has been so busy that he often must push their meals back when he doesn't forget them all together. Not that Elnor lays blame, only that he wishes Hugh could have the time he so clearly needs to take care of himself.  
  
"Is that a yes?" Eva asks, an amused lit to her voice.  
  
"If you do not mind that I leave before we are finished?"  
  
Eva's chuckle is the crisp tinkling of spring water. "The stars aren't going anywhere. Go mind our Director, he listens to you."  
  
Elnor flushes, the thought that Hugh may consider his words especially being a pleasing one, but hopes the spiraling greens that drift about the hologram hide it. He bows in deference to Eva as a teacher and has to hide his grin as she shoos him away, still embarrassed after so many lessons by his show of respect.  
  
Elnor leaves the expanse of the universe that illuminates the astrometrics lab and into the familiar walkways of the Artifact. There is a lightness to his step whenever he knows Hugh to be his destination, even more so now than before.  
  
He cares for Hugh greatly. What had started as a bond formed of respect in the midst of enemies and then forged by the oath of Qowat Milat was now something much _more_. Affection known by a stronger word Elnor has dared utter to himself in private and found it feels right.  
  
But he has not been true to his way of Absolute Candor, though he had been prepared to tell Hugh once sure of himself. Soji, however, had advised against it.  
  
Theirs was a friendship that had not begun well. Aboard the _La Sirena_ after leaving Nepenthe, Elnor had noticed Soji was more inclined to the rest of the crew than himself, never speaking to him directly and often finding reasons to avoid his presence, no matter how unintentional their being in each others company might be.  
  
Convinced he had wronged her somehow, Elnor had asked Hugh as he had known her before anyone else.  
  
"It's not really my place to say," Hugh had said and Elnor remembers his embarrassment, not intending to pry. He would have asked Soji herself if she would have remained in the same room as he.  
  
"But," Hugh had continued, even then already so considerate to Elnor's troubles, "She made a... close friend while on the Artifact. And as you saw, many of those friends weren't really our friends at all."  
  
Betrayal was a hurt that lingered even after the wound healed. Unfortunate, as Tal Shiar were proficient in such a weapon. Soji had not been comfortable around him as he was Romulan, and while there was indignity at being compared to the honorless, deceiving Zhat Vash, Elnor had sympathized with her pain. So, he had done his best during their mission to show Soji he was not like them, that to be a Qowat Milat warrior was to promise oneself to honestly and loyalty, and as a friend of Picard's, as a friend of Hugh's, she was a friend to him, and he would protect her.  
  
It had worked, Elnor's determination leading to them finding some common ground between Soji's love of anthropology and his perspective on the little-known culture of the Qowat Milat. They had become true friends, and as Elnor would call her on Coppelius, Soji would call to inquire about his time on the Artifact.  
  
During one of their more recent communications, Soji had started as usual by asking him how he was, and Elnor had answered truthfully.  
  
"I am well. I believe I may be in love with Hugh."  
  
It has felt good to say to another. Soji's mouth had fallen open, freezing so completely Elnor had thought their transmission had been interrupted.  
  
"That's," she had finally said, mouth working the words before she spoke them, "Uh, that's... when did you guys start dating?"  
  
Elnor had looked at her curiously through his screen. "We are not dating."  
  
"Huh," Soji had said as if Elnor had given her a riddle, "I-I'm going to be honest, Elnor, I'm a little confused. When did this happen?"  
  
That had been easy enough to tell her. A few weeks ago from that day, Elnor and Hugh had been continuing to clean up the physical ruin of the Artifact. Despite the mourning and despair that surrounded him, Hugh had stood tall, his face one of gentle support, his voice soothing. So many had come to him, lost, scared, and Hugh had given time to them all. Elnor had not believed the strength, the diligence, of his Bonded.  
  
And in one particular moment, a young ex-drone girl of a race Elnor had not known approached Hugh, recognizing him from dozens. Her face had been tracked with tears, ruddy around the ridges of her nose and temples, so distraught she could barely speak.  
  
Without a moment's hesitation, Hugh had picked her up, so small she was, and had let her cry into his shoulder. In between delegating work as one man as if he were six, he would whisper simple facts to her about the cube until she was calmed and comfortable enough to be taken by another xB.  
  
Already Hugh had held Elnor's regard, earned in a dark room surrounded by death and refusing to break. Elnor would not be qalankhkai to him otherwise. But in that moment, stretched out as far as his heart could carry it, Elnor had not wanted to just protect Hugh, he had wanted to be that which Hugh could lean against when weary.  
  
Elnor had wanted to hold Hugh, to touch a face so captivating to look at, to tell him all the wondrous things he was and kiss him.  
  
"So you have a crush!" Soji had concluded. Elnor had not known what a "crush" was, but he had not liked how meager it made his feelings sound.  
  
"I am going to tell him," Elnor had told her, and Soji had flailed as if she could pull him through the screen.  
  
"Wait, wait, wait, Elnor, has Hugh given any indication that he likes you as more than a friend?"  
  
"I do not believe so." Though he had hoped.  
  
"Well, you can't just go up to someone and tell them you're in love with them," she had said.  
  
"Why not?" he had asked, frustration at those strange rules that exist outside the Way of Absolute Candor building.  
  
"It's- it's just a lot of information to drop on someone who might not be expecting it. Like, imagine if Raffi had come up to you on the _La Sirena_ and told you she was in love with you. How would you feel?"  
  
Shocked. Confused, maybe. It had not been something he had considered, that Elnor being honest in his feelings might make Hugh uncomfortable, even though it was truth.  
  
"See?" Soji had continued, "That's why, when you're trying to feel out if someone is interested in you, you flirt."  
  
"... flirt?"  
  
And then Soji had explained to him all about "flirting". Distilled to basics it involved smiling, touching, and giving compliments. Flirting was done so that if the other person did not feel the same way, they could show it by not returning the flirting, and no feelings have to have been expressed.  
  
It had sounded ridiculously complicated and unnecessary. Elnor did not like it, but if that would be more of what Hugh would expect, then he would try to avoid placing Hugh in an awkward situation.  
  
The only issue being that Elnor already smiles at Hugh because Hugh makes him happy, touches Hugh because wants to offer comfort, and gives Hugh compliments because Hugh should hear them always. All Soji could further suggest was to continue as he was, but do it more.  
  
Elnor is trying. Very much so he is trying to convey to Hugh through actions what words would make clear. Over the weeks he gets close enough to Hugh to count the lashes of his eyes, lets his touches linger until he is afraid he may not let go, tells Hugh how much he matters with very word he knows without using the one that envelopes his heart.  
  
Only Hugh is not acting any differently, and Elnor can only try for so long. Is it Hugh trying to tell Elnor he does not share the same feelings? Or is Elnor so bad at flirting Hugh has not noticed it as such? Elnor aches from the uncertainty, and though it goes against Soji's advice, would rather tell Hugh and be done with it.  
  
But Hugh has been busy, the responsibility of this place weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Elnor will not burden him further to be selfish. No, for now Elnor will enjoy Hugh's company and take care of him as qalankhkai and friend.  
  
Even though he dreams of more. Of casual affection in the open amongst others. Of something far more intimate in the privacy of quarters.  
  
As Elnor walks into the commissary, the lightness that carried him here turns to lead. He sees Hugh at their table, eyes closed, resting his chin on folded hands, but Hugh...  
  
Hugh does not look well.  
  
The dark circles under Hugh's eyes that have plagued him for several weeks sink deep. His skin, usually fair due to a life long spent without the light of a sun, is pale, near waxen. He hunches carefully, as if wanting to hide within the mass of those eating. Elnor has watched as the effects of Hugh's fatigue worsen over the days, his worry not abated no matter how Hugh claims that he is fine. This is not fine.  
  
Elnor stops in front of the table. There is a tray of food for him, but nothing in front of Hugh. Hugh does not open his eyes, and Elnor wonders if he has fallen asleep here. The worry gnaws like hundreds of mites.  
  
"Hugh?" Elnor calls gently. Hugh's eyes snap open, a brief second of panic in them before it is blinked away.  
  
Hugh looks up at Elnor and smiles, but there is an obvious strain to it. "I'm sorry, Elnor, I was... thinking. Thank you for joining me early. I hope I didn't cut your lesson short?"  
  
Even Hugh's voice sounds oddly unsteady. "Nothing is cut short when you ask me my company," Elnor says, watching Hugh as closely as he can. "You are not eating?" He nods to the empty place at Hugh's elbows.  
  
Hugh shakes his head. "I'm not hungry. Feeling a little ill, I'm afraid."  
  
That would make sense why Hugh looks so unwell, but it does not ease Elnor's concern. "If you are sick, you should go to medical."  
  
"It's fine," Hugh says and Elnor grows tired of hearing it, "I'd just like to sit here for our lunch."  
  
"It will do you no good to get worse," Elnor maintains firmly, "You need not exert yourself for me. I can go with you-"  
  
"Elnor, _please_ ," and Hugh's eyes, a fathomless brown and dazzling blue, which already hold such power over him, gaze into his own, imploring. "Can... can we just sit here like usual while you tell me about astrometrics? I promise you, if I feel worse I will report to medical, but for right now, this is what I need. Please."  
  
Elnor frowns, not bothering to hide his misgivings, but he cannot deny Hugh. He would prefer Hugh the rest he so surely needs, and should further assert such. But when Hugh's smile is so brittle, a warning that if Elnor does not let this be it may shatter, what more can Elnor do?  
  
The tension does not fully leave Hugh as Elnor takes his seat, and he wonders what has Hugh so anxious. It is distressing, and Elnor has to bite his tongue to keep from asking. Elnor is not good at pretending, but he tries to repress some of his worry so that his expression may be more open, more comforting, and he recounts his day.  
  
He leaves no detail unsaid. He talks about his morning exercises, the hour spent going through his forms. He mentions how he tried cooked gagh for his morning meal and that it is far easier to eat than raw gagh, as he does not have to chase it around his plate. He describes the xBs he ran into while roaming the Artifact, how Khex drew him into conversation about the underlying dialect of the Romulan language as the universal translator does not always pick up on the subtleties.  
  
Finally, Elnor gets to his lesson with Eva. Hugh has relaxed some, his eyes closed as Elnor speaks, like a flower drinking in sunlight. Elnor is glad he has helped, but he wishes he knew what ails Hugh so. Were Hugh to reveal himself, Elnor wishes he trusted that Elnor would not turn him away.  
  
"This cube traversed many places when it was still part of the Borg Collective," Elnor says, "Would the Borg ever travel simply to experience it?" He is careful when asking about the Borg. For many it is still a pain unbearable, but Hugh has always welcomed his questions.  
  
Hugh opens his eyes and proceeds to look somewhere far away, well beyond this room they sit in. "No," he responds quietly, no louder than a page turned in a book, "they wouldn't. Traveling, going planet to planet, system to system, is only to facilitate assimilation."  
  
Has he reopened old pain, or is this melancholy some part of Hugh's unwellness? Guilt blooms cold in Elnor's chest, his words lost to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a tremor starting in Hugh's left hand. Much like he did yesterday, Elnor reaches for it.  
  
The tips of his fingers barely brush Hugh's, light as a feather, and Hugh comes back to himself suddenly, ripping his hand away as if Elnor's touch burns.  
  
" _Don't_ ," Hugh hisses loud enough to bring the attention of a nearby table, and Elnor feels as if he's been slapped.  
  
There is a terrible moment looking into Hugh's eyes where all Elnor can see is fear, then Hugh averts his gaze all together. What was cold before now freezes as Hugh stands, not even pretending to look at Elnor.  
  
"I-I'm sorry," Hugh pushes his chair in, and Elnor's breath is ice in his lungs. "I just remembered I have a report I need to finish." Then Hugh leaves. He walks out of the commissary, but he might as well be running. Because, Elnor is certain from the sharp pain in his side, Hugh is running from _him_.  
  
Had... had Hugh learned of Elnor's feelings? Had Hugh noticed what Elnor was doing, choosing not to respond in order to rebuff him gently? Was Elnor's affection so undesirable that Hugh would fear him, knowing that there was more behind his touches than that of a friend?  
  
As a child, Elnor had fallen during a training exercise. He had lost his balance, clung to his sister unthinking, and they both had hit the ground. Even as children, they used swords in training, better to learn the respect such a weapon is due early, and Elnor ended up landing on his sister's lancet. The blade has pierced his middle, to his fortune missing everything vital, but the pain had been excruciating for one so young and inexperienced.  
  
Elnor would willingly endure that one-thousand times over than this.  
  
Rejection was always possible. One did not love another with the expectation of being loved in return. And though Elnor has not loved before, not like this, he knows something about what happened is not right. Hugh should not have responded in fright, and whatever it was Elnor had done wrong, he will make amends.  
  
But he most know what for.  
  
Elnor looks down at his tray and has never known food to be less appealing.

* * *

  
  
In his room is where Hugh spends the rest of his working day. Undoubtedly cowardly and the worst hiding place imaginable, but Hugh couldn't risk running into Elnor whether by accident or design.  
  
The look on Elnor's face... the _hurt_... Hugh hadn't meant to react so viciously. His mind kept drifting through lunch, exhaustion playing no small part. When Elnor had spoken of the Borg, all Hugh could think of was the metal coiled through his veins, the threat it posed, and then Elnor touched his hand as if it was safe.  
  
Once he was in his right mind, after he got a full regeneration cycle, Hugh would apologize. Elnor didn't deserve to have his concern tossed away like it meant nothing. It meant everything, and Hugh was lucky that any was spared his way.  
  
His terminal beeps with an incoming call. It's not high-priority, which means it's not Dorsey, which means Hugh breathes a little easier. He closes the volunteer request he's been finalizing for the past three days and answers the call.  
  
To his added relief, a dear face adorning a familiar set of implants framed in blond hair appears on screen.  
  
"Annika," Hugh greets sincerely and means it, "How are you?"  
  
Annika's blue eyes inspect him thoroughly in the milliseconds before she answers. "I'm fine, but you look like hell."  
  
Hugh's lips twitch. Any sentiment Annika expresses usually ties in with her directness. "Your honesty, as always, is appreciated."  
  
"Sure it is," Annika says, "But I'm serious, Hugh. It looks like you haven't regenerated for a week."  
  
"It feels that way," Hugh can be honest with Annika in a way he can't be with others. He can be vulnerable in front of her without fear of judgment, or consequence. Their connection, not merely as ex-Borg, but as some of the first of their kind, doesn't allow for it. "I'm trying to keep the Reclamation Project running, but it's like the tighter I hold it, the more it slips through my fingers." He's spoken to her about this before, each time more bleak than the last.  
  
"Maybe it's time to call in some favors? You have friends in high places, Hugh."  
  
Hugh thinks of the infectious friendliness of Geordi, the dry wit of Beverly, and the unwavering fortitude of Picard before his expression falls. "I don't want anyone going out of their way for me. The Project is in a very precarious position right now, and asking someone for a hand may be asking them for their career."  
  
Annika raises her eyebrow, her mouth angled down just perfectly. "You need to stop being so self-sacrificing, Hugh. Martyrdom isn't a good look for you."  
  
"Personally, I think I've been wearing it fairly well." Even if he does look like hell, it is sort of the point of the thing.  
  
"What else?" Annika asks, almost as perceptive as Elnor.  
  
He meets Annika's eyes and wonders what she sees. "Nightmares," he answers, the dread and shame feeling just as leaden as they did this morning over his toilet.  
  
Annika's mouth twists uncomfortably, knowingly, because she, of anyone, would understand. "Do you want to talk about it?" she offers out of kindness, but Annika has more than enough nightmares of her own, and he won't add to them.  
  
"No," he says, and after all the times he has let a conversation between them go because Annika asked him too, Hugh knows she won't push him any further.  
  
"I did call you for a reason," Annika continues smoothly, "The crew wanted to stop by, check in on you and Elnor."  
  
Good friends would be welcome right now, but with how much is going on, Hugh doesn't have the time to sleep, much less entertain. "I can't promise I'll be much of a host."  
  
Annika sighs. "You're doing it again. No one expects you to drop what you're doing. You can see us as you can, and for anything else, I'm sure Elnor knows his way around the Artifact by now," she gets a playful smirk, always telling to see on her usually stoic face, "He's your shadow after all."  
  
He's being teased, and despite wanting to know just how that nickname made it off this cube, Hugh decides to enjoy it for what it is. Yes, friends would be very welcome. Elnor too, though he hasn't said he's been lonely, no doubt misses everyone.  
  
Hugh sits up straighter in his chair, puffs out his chest, and makes a show of clearing his throat. "Well, as Executive Director of the Borg Reclamation Project, I formally invite the crew of the _La Sirena_ to the Artifact. Let if be known you have docking clearance when you arrive, and I look forward to seeing you all."  
  
Annika gives a couple claps, and Hugh a small bow. He's happy, but he's tired.  
  
"Should I let you go?" Of course she's picked up on it. As if it wasn't obvious.  
  
Hugh keeps his eyes on his screen but knows what lies just out of view. His sheets are unmade and sweat-stained. The portable regenerator still on the floor from when he'd thrown it. He needs rest, but he can't. Not yet. The nightmare is too fresh, too real. Everything looms, dark and expectant, and Hugh isn't ready to face it.  
  
"What about you, Annika? How have you been?" It's a clear redirect, but Hugh's not trying to hide anything from her.  
  
"As good as can be expected. Rios needs to program a hologram that can actually fly a ship," she adjusts how she sits, likely getting comfortable, and let's Hugh ignore his demons for a of couple hours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A move is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Every Sunday, is that what I said way back in chapter 1? Yeah, my life got flip-turned upside down and this was obviously late. This was the last chapter I had written in advance, but as I was writing chapter 5, I realized there wasn't enough for where I wanted it to end. So, I combined the original chapter 4 with chapter 5, then I had to rewrite it to work because the structure was off and some of the dialogue wasn't working anymore and long story short it wound up being twice as long as a regular chapter. I thought about cutting it in half, but it's taken me a month to finally get this out, so it's an apology. Sorry.
> 
> That being said, I'll probably have to promise a chapter every two weeks to be posted on Mondays (Mondays just work better), since I'm all out of pre-written chapters. Again, the entire story is outlined, so it will be done! ST:Picard still has me too angry to even think of letting it go.
> 
> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos. I really appreciate them and I love to know what you guys think!

Hugh doesn't try to regenerate.  
  
Regeneration and sleep aren't the same thing, not to xBs. Sleep may rest the body, the mind, but regeneration is needed to keep the implants still integrated into major bodily systems functional. Without it, implants begin to fail, and the host will suffer an increasing loss of motor control until reaching a state not dissimilar to a coma.  
  
Regular sleep simply won't do.  
  
But it's better than nothing.  
  
An hour or so. That's all he wants. If Hugh can manage sleep for that long, he'll go into a genuine cycle.  
  
After his conversation with Annika came to farewells, Hugh reclined in his chair. He shouldn't fall asleep at his desk, it will undoubtedly be hell on his back, but he's comfortable. He lets his eyes fall shut, the dim lights of his room and the ensuing silence gradually lulling him.  
  
Almost immediately, time stretches in that strange place between awake and asleep as his body relaxes more and more with each breath. Hugh drifts along the threshold of consciousness, seconds growing long as his body and mind greedily seize the chance for the rest he's been neglecting.  
  
His head rolls forward, and then, at first like the delicate grazing of butterfly wings, there are nimble fingers threading gently through his hair. It should be startling, but they comb along the back of his head, easing tension he didn't know he had with attentive strokes. It feels so nice, and he leans into them as they continue downward, fleeting, along his nape.  
  
Then they pull away, and Hugh doesn't have time to miss them before they are replaced by something smoother, colder, and what was tender and curious becomes hungry and searching. Metal... the metal limbs of Borg tendrils slither over his skin, going lower, searching, until their metal finds the metal nestled within his spine...  
  
Hugh's terminal beeps.  
  
His eyes snap open and Hugh sits up fully in his chair, stomach clenching, hand already feeling along the back of his neck. Of course there's nothing there. Why would there be? But his heart hammers in his chest, and the shaky breath he lets out is relieved.  
  
His terminal beeps again, and Hugh resolutely ignores the whispers of inorganic touches against his skin and opens the message he's received.  
  
Dorsey's face appears on screen, and it's surprising this isn't an open communication. It seems even his high and mighty Admiral Dorsey doesn't have an infinite amount of time to waste by calling Hugh with every minor thing.  
  
Hugh plays it.  
  
 _"Executive Director Hugh,"_ Message-Dorsey starts with the barest amount of enthusiasm possible. Vindictively, Hugh hopes he was interrupted from something very important, _"at approximately 0200 Starfleet was contacted by the New Cardassian Union delegate Gul Dokor of the agricultural colony Lalget on the planet Rnn'Vel II. Their sensors picked up a ship of unknown origins entering the atmosphere of Rnn'Vel II and then crashing two-hundred kilometers outside the colony. When ground scans swept the area, the craft came back matching the description and configuration of a Borg scout ship. Gul Dokor ordered the area blocked-off and under full surveillance until a representative of the Borg Reclamation Project is delivered to make contact. The USS Hermes is set to arrive at the Artifact by 2100 to transport you to Rnn'Vel II. Dorsey out."_  
  
Wonderful.   
  
Hugh has tried again and again to propose a regulation to Starfleet and the Federation to initiate contact with separated Borg when discovered instead of shooting first- tentatively called the Separated Borg Contact Plan, or SBCP because Hugh really isn't very good at coming up with interesting names. It has, unsurprisingly, fallen mostly on indifferent ears. Though he did have some luck with it last year when the Andorian Mining Consortium approached him about two drone survivors of a destroyed Borg probe.  
  
He has no idea how a mining ship managed to defeat a Borg ship, even one as small and with fewer arms as a probe, but it's better not to ask questions like that of Andorians. Due to their help, he was able to show that Borg outside the Artifact - aside from the extraordinary cases such as himself and Annika - can be reclaimed.  
  
Naturally, the first time Starfleet decides to try it, Dorsey wants him to be the one to do it, and in the middle of all _this_. Maybe he should be thankful, if only a little, but everything with Dorsey is two-edged.  
  
Hugh should prepare, but the shadows in the corners of his room make him uneasy and the silence is too loud.  
  
No longer the sanctuary it had been before, Hugh leaves his room. He can't stay still, and he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts, but the Artifact is quiet at this time. He winds up flitting from department to department like a ghost, checking in without staying long, the dark lapping at his heels.  
  
Eventually, his feet take him to the place he always goes when he's lost, and he walks up to a pair of Romulan security guards with a flash of his credentials despite being the Executive Director here for nearly seven years.  
  
The guard on the left is young and couldn't have been stationed on the Artifact any longer than a week as Hugh doesn't recognize her. Her skeptical expression gives way to incredulousness, either at the strangeness of the hour, or that Hugh wants entry. The guard on the right, however, is one Hugh's known for the last fours years at this post.  
  
Though perhaps 'known' is a strong word. The guard's name is Eakar, and the only reason Hugh knows that much is because that's all Eakar has ever given him. All he can say with absolute certainty is that Eakar doesn't like talking, and he looks like he only ever eats sour foods.  
  
Used to Hugh's eccentricities, or more likely just not caring, Eakar keys in the appropriate code to open the doors and steps off to the side to allow Hugh through.  
  
It is no small feat to step into the Gray Zone. Even before the attack there were a very limited number of people working here, and no work has taken place in the subsequent months. None of the Borg technology has been removed or reconfigured, and any equipment brought in from other departments has been taken out. Nothing was meant to stay here permanently while it was still the housing area for unclaimed drones.  
  
It's like walking onto an active Borg cube.  
  
Hugh meanders his way through, his footsteps echoing softly off the metal walkways that go on and on in an endless labyrinth. Rows upon rows of alcoves holding awaiting drones hum low with energy in a way that's achingly familiar, calling to him like a memory just out of reach.   
  
The drones nestled in the alcoves sleep their not-sleep. Completely still. Near lifeless to those ignorant. Hugh studies their faces, wonders at who they were, at the possibilities of who they will become. Hundreds of races from all over the galaxy, some of them the last of their kind from worlds long since assimilated. All of them, vestiges of culture, kept within a single place like artifacts in a museum set for display.  
  
Ironic, considering they are held in a ship called the Artifact.  
  
They shouldn't be. These lives aren't _things_ in an exhibition meant to be gawked at. Here they are, locked away, when they should be _freed_.  
  
The unprecedented flare of resentment catches Hugh off guard.  
  
He needs to calm down. His nerves are unnecessarily wound up, index finger tapping an anxious and angry rhythm against his thigh. These unclaimed drones aren't being detained, they're being held safe until they can be given the help they need. Individual drones still one with the Collective aren't a danger to groups of people, but a disconnected drone can be radical and unpredictable, posing potential harm to themselves and others.  
  
The Reclamation Project will work. It is working. It's just a slow going process.  
  
One that many are keen on slowing even further.  
  
Hugh continues to walk the rows, the muted lights casting everything in a hazy silhouette as he goes deeper into the cell, passing drone after drone. Ahead, near where the row stops to allow for an intersecting overpass to the next cell, he sees a drone much smaller than the others in the alcoves. It's difficult, no matter how accustomed he is to seeing children assimilated by the Borg, but he keeps going until he stops in front of it.  
  
It's a young girl no older than thirteen. She lacks many of the large implants found in adult drones, not being mature enough for them, and that nearly makes her look at peace. Hugh stares down at her, heart ripe with the knowledge that this child was ripped from her home, her family. She might have been from the last civilization the Artifact assimilated before coming into contact with the _Shaenor_. She must have been terrified.  
  
The longer Hugh stares at her, the more familiar she looks. He's walked the Gray Zone countless times, seen the faces of thousands of drones. He could have passed her before, but that's not it. Hugh bends down, takes in the set of her eyes and the pale freckles of her face, and suddenly he knows this girl is Kestra Troi-Riker.  
  
He rears back, blinks, because that's not possible, but she's still there. A child that should be with her parents on a planet light years away from here stands regenerating in an alcove. Hugh looks to the drone next to her and covers his mouth.  
  
It's Geordi.  
  
A sound lodges in his throat. Hugh almost can't recognize him, but it is Geordi. His dearest friend, covered in full exo-plating where a Starfleet uniform should be, his skin deathly white and his cybernetic eyes gouged out, replaced with more efficient optical devices that bore deeply into his skull.  
  
Hugh's eyes dart to the next drone and it's Agnes Jurati, her pale blond hair still atop her head, but mangled and matted. A small implant has sprouted at the base of her round jaw where the black veins are thickest. She's still wearing the clothes Hugh saw her in before departing the _La Sirena_.  
  
It can't be. _It can't_. Hugh whirls around, unable to look any longer, and before him is the grand visage of Locutus of Borg, awesome and glorious even as he rests, his implants whole and unified perfectly into his body, no trace of the human frailty of Picard to be found.  
  
Hugh's breathing comes in erratic bursts. This can't be real, but he sees it, and he doesn't want to see anything else. But he remembers his fear of Locutus, standing on the _Enterprise_ , telling a young Hugh that all those people, all his friends, were to be assimilated, and he was going to assist. That he was Borg. Resistance was futile.  
  
Panic forces him to turn away, and of course, of course it's Elnor. He's different than in Hugh's nightmare. The veins are gone, his skin now an even shade of ivory. His implants are artistic in the way they line his face asymmetrically, and his eyes, captivating still despite being closed, remain uncovered. Even the armor of his exo-plating is less clunky, slimmer in a fashion that would suit Elnor better.  
  
Under the green illumination of the head of the alcove, a voice whispers to Hugh, as seductive as it is dark.  
  
 _He's beautiful, isn't he?_  
  
Hugh closes his eyes against it, against everything. His digs the palms of his trembling hands into his eyes until it hurts and all he sees are stars. He counts to ten, then twenty. He inhales deeply through his nose and exhales through his mouth. It isn't real. He just needs to calm down.  
  
This will not get the better of him. Hugh opens his eyes once again to the nameless faces of Borg drones. The young girl is still there, but no longer someone he knows. The hallucinations are gone. The ever present tremor in his left hand, however, remains.  
  
Hugh grabs the rail of the walkway, he may not be able to stay up otherwise, and looks out over everything. High above and down below are tens of thousands of lives. They all need him, and he feels like he's falling apart. He can't afford to fall apart - there's no one to help if he does.  
  
He's tired, that's all. He isn't regenerating like he should. His implants are straining, and he isn't processing information correctly. When he gets back from Rnn'Vel II, he'll talk to someone. This can't be allowed to continue, but he doesn't have the time to deal with it presently.  
  
Hugh allows himself some time to stare out blankly, oddly serene as he tries to keep the weight of his responsibilities from crushing him. He's focusing so hard on trying to focus on nothing, that it takes him a good few minutes before he realizes he's not alone.  
  
Hugh swallows thickly, any composure he's scrounged up evaporating like steam. "You shouldn't be here, Elnor." Behind him there's a thud as Elnor drops down from wherever he's come in.  
  
"Neither should you," Elnor responds softly.  
  
"I'm the project director, I can be where ever I want," It's true, even if it sounds acerbic. "How long have you been here?" Hugh doesn't ask how he got in. It definitely wasn't though the entrance doors, and Elnor has a knack for finding ways in and out of places.  
  
"Not long. It took me some time to find you." Elnor doesn't sound like he saw Hugh earlier, which is for the best. Still, when Hugh looks at Elnor, Elnor has an air of timidity to him.  
  
"You shouldn't be in the Gray Zone at all, especially without a gradient badge," Hugh taps the hexagon on his chest. "Why were you looking for me?"  
  
"I wanted to apologize to you," Elnor's eyes meet his with their usual sincerity, and Hugh wants nothing more than to lose himself to it. He ignores the way his heart skips cruelly, but he feels his right cheek twitch as if something moves underneath the skin, and hastily turns back to face the hollow center of the Gray Zone.  
  
Hugh rubs his face subtlety, checking, and attempts to keep his voice level. "What about?"  
  
He hears Elnor shift nervously, "I have made you uncomfortable. This was not my intention."  
  
"You don't need to apologize for anything," Hugh's mind is a million miles away from this conversation and he goes to default answers as he rakes his fingernails over the side of his face. There's nothing there, but Hugh swears he felt it. The threat of sharp metal ready to bloom out of his skin.  
  
"But I do," and Elnor steps closer. Hugh shouldn't want Elnor closer, but he does, doesn't he? "I was being selfish." Hugh wants them as close as can be. "And I was not considering you fully as I should have..." Wants them together. "Hugh?" Wants them joined.  
  
 _He's beautiful. But he could be perfect._  
  
"Hugh, are you well?" Elnor's voice is right at his ear and Hugh jumps away, thoughts crumbling, before Elnor's hand grabs his shoulder. Elnor's worry couldn't be more obvious, his affliction a close second with how his hand hangs in the air between them, fingers curved.  
  
"I've been thinking," Hugh says, and it's a lie because he's only just thought of it, but he clutches the idea with a manic desperation. "Seven called me. The _La Sirena_ is arriving in thirty hours to visit."  
  
"That is... good," Elnor watches him, perplexed, and Hugh realizes he's still scratching at his cheek. "It will be pleasing to seem them again, but-"  
  
"And I've been thinking," Something is wrong here. Exhaustion or no, Elnor shouldn't be around Hugh right now, "When they leave, that you might go with them."  
  
Elnor freezes. "You... you want me to leave the Artifact?"  
  
Hugh tries to convey the rational he doesn't feel. "It would be better, don't you think? If you were on the _La Sirena_ you would be with friends. You could be going on adventures, exploring the galaxy. It could be the the start to the life you wanted when you were a child."  
  
Any possibility of something better seems completely lost on Elnor. "But you would remain here?" he asks, or more so clarifies.  
  
"Yes." Hugh would stay here, and Elnor would be safe from this thing Hugh has found inside himself.  
  
Pain flashes across Elnor's face, and one hand grips the leather strap of his sheath so tightly his knuckles go white. "Have- have my feelings upset you so greatly you wish to dismiss me as qalankhkai?" Hugh has to keep smiling. He has to pretend he doesn't hear the distress in Elnor's voice. "You would have me sent from your side?"  
  
"There's nothing for you here," The Artifact is a cold, gray place and it will trap Elnor here when he deserves any sun and sky he wants. "No opportunities, nothing new or exciting. You shouldn't be forced to stay here just because you bound yourself to a lost cause."  
  
Elnor shakes his head. "No! I hold true the work you do, those you help. Your cause is the noblest I have known. I do not stay because I am forced too. A Qowat Milat warrior is not chained by their oath. Please, tell me you do not believe differently?"  
  
The reason Elnor stays doesn't matter when Hugh's afraid he won't be able to leave. "I believe you went with Picard on a journey because you wanted to help him. I believe you fought the Zhat Vash because you wanted to help the people aboard the Artifact. I believe you came here because you wanted to help me. I'm very grateful to you, Elnor, but I don't need your help, and I won't have you stand in a corner collecting dust waiting for me to need you."  
  
Hugh can see Elnor ready to argue, ready to fight, so he tells the biggest lie he's ever said in his entire life. "I don't want you here."  
  
It's cold, the silence that follows.  
  
"I-" Elnor struggles to speak, "I do not believe you. What you say... it is..."  
  
"Does not believing in something make it any less true?" Somehow, Hugh is strong enough to look Elnor in the eye. "That doesn't sound in line with Absolute Candor."  
  
Elnor stops, stunned, then lowers his gaze, unable to look at Hugh. Hugh has never seen Elnor like this before, always so proud and outgoing, and has never felt crueler. "Please," Elnor asks, "If you do not want me as qalankhkai, then please see me as your friend. There is that much at least? I will not overstep again, I will not ask for more, I promise you. But I want to stay."  
  
 _A friend?_ Smoke curls around his thoughts, just as Hugh thinks he's gone too far, Elnor's utter sorrow not at all what he'd anticipated. _But we want so much **more**._  
  
Images of flesh and machine weaving together, bending, fusing, and then another joins, untouched, beautiful, and it is skin against skin against metal,  
  
writhing,  
  
joining,  
  
complete.  
  
 _Why stop there?_  
  
Hugh turns his back to Elnor, disgusted with himself. He holds his left wrist hard enough to break it. Is this what his desire has perverted into? Years apart from the Collective, yet he can't differentiate wanting something from taking it.  
  
From consuming it.  
  
It's enough to make him sick again, his insides twisting. The only thing stopping him is that Elnor is still here. Hugh's resolve hardens to stone, pulling the strength from deep within to put Elnor first.  
  
"The Artifact is for instituting the Borg Reclamation Project," his voice is so steady he can almost convince himself. "I'm here to see to the rehabilitation of former Borg drones. I'm not here for friends."  
  
"You cannot force me to leave," says Elnor weakly, a last grasp at defiance.  
  
"As Executive Director, I have final say as to who is and is not allowed on the Artifact," This needs to be done. It's for the best. "But I'm asking you, when the _La Sirena_ leaves, please go with them."  
  
Elnor makes no response. Hugh waits, but doesn't move, and after a while it's clear Elnor has left as quietly as he came.  
  
The emptiness of the Gray Zone is easier to take in now, as it can't compare to his own.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Fifteen years, seven months, and eleven standard days ago, Eva was a maintenance drone.  
  
She would repair damage to her designated cube, outfit recently assimilated ships, and occasionally be reassigned to repair fellow drones in the event a medical drone was unavailable. She was very good at fixing things, and as awful as being Borg once was, this is a trait she has carried with her into her new life.  
  
Right now, as she walks purposefully to Hugh's office, something is terribly, terribly wrong and it needs to be fixed.  
  
She had gone to the astrometrics lab. It was her project, one Hugh had given her gladly. Weeks spent configuring the technology, and they'd only just begun to detail the cube's navigation data. So many places unexplored, so many stars unseen. Privately, and not a little optimistically, Eva wondered if the Artifact might one day fly again, not as a beacon of coming destruction, but as one of discovery.  
  
Passion was her favorite thing to relearn during her reclamation- what motivated it, what ambition it lead to- and she poured as much as she could into the lab. The only other person nearly as dedicated to it as she was Elnor. His curiosity for the world unknown was an affinity to her own. That's why she wasn't surprised to see him there multiple hours before he was to meet her for his lesson.  
  
What had surprised her was that he was sitting in a corner of the lab, huddled in a way to make himself small. Before him was displayed the Romulan Solar System before the sun's supernova, and while the holographic lights and darks made it difficult, she could see the sheen of dried tears on his face.  
  
She'd gone to him, so sure that this was a moment to mourn his lost home. Sadness, she had found, could come at any time for any reason. Even things she had thought she'd long come to terms with could strike arbitrarily.  
  
But when she'd asked him what was wrong, all Elnor had been able to tell her, in a broken voice, was, "Hugh does not want me here. He does not want me at all."  
  
It was the most absurd thing she's ever heard, which is why she strides to Hugh's office. Clearly there has been a mistake, a misunderstanding. Hugh said something, that something upset Elnor, Hugh didn't know it upset Elnor, so Eva will tell Hugh, Hugh will see his error, Hugh and Elnor will talk, and everything will sort itself out. Obviously.  
  
It may not be failing structural integrity, but this is a simple problem to fix.  
  
At least she hopes so, because when she gets to Hugh office, the door does not open at her arrival. It's locked, and Hugh doesn't lock his office while he's using it. He likes the xBs to know he's there whenever they need him.  
  
It doesn't mean anything. Probably. Hugh has been extremely busy and exceptionally tired. He's no doubt focused on some new work order Admiral Dorsey has pushed through, which would account for the possibility of him expressing himself badly, most likely distracted, and making Elnor think he's unwanted.  
  
There, logical and simple.  
  
Eva chimes the door. After a few moments of her standing there, followed by a second chime, the lock disengages and she can let herself in.  
  
Her confidence slowly deflates the closer she looks at Hugh, watching him shuffle times and dates around a holo-screen, waiting for him to acknowledge her.  
  
She makes a light cough.  
  
"Eva," Hugh finally says, the amiable expression his face makes is one she's seen him use when speaking to the military and government officials when they show up unannounced on the Artifact, butting into processes they don't understand. "I was just about to message you."  
  
"Then my timing is impeccable," she replies, trying to shake off the immediate strangeness, "I wanted to ask you about a situation that happened recently. With Elnor."  
  
Hugh's eyes go back to his holo-screen, like the conversation has lost his interest.  
  
She tries not to frown. "I saw him in the astrometrics lab- he was very upset. He seems to think you don't want him on the Artifact. That you're angry with him." She waits for Hugh to clear this mess up, but all he does is stare blankly at the words on his screen.  
  
"I'm not angry with him," he says, and before Eva can relax, adds, "But I did tell him to leave."  
  
Eva's jaw drops in shock. "What? Why?"  
  
"Because he doesn't need to be here." Hugh says it so matter-of-fact Eva's bewilderment only gets worse. This isn't right. Elnor is a joy to have here. Most everyone likes him from recently reclaimed xBs to Vulcan staff members. She's even seen some of the more surly Romulan guards crack a genuine smile with his affable nature.  
  
And Hugh. Eva doesn't like to speculate about people, rumors have been known to spread like truth with the xBs who don't know any better, but she knows Elnor has made Hugh happy. From the moment they came back to the Artifact, Hugh looking worse for wear but alive, and Elnor, a stranger to all but dutifully by Hugh's side, there was a connection between them.  
  
It was something important. Something where Elnor remembered Hugh was only a man with the responsibility of an entire people on his shoulders when so many forgot. Something where Hugh, who worries so much about failure, was comfortable enough to let Elnor see him faults and all.  
  
It's not speculation if it's true.  
  
"I'm not sure what you mean," Because this doesn't make sense, "Elnor's been extremely helpful around the Artifact."  
  
"I'm not denying that," Hugh says, "But now that routines are coming back under order, we need specialists. Engineers, doctors, therapists. Our primary focus has to be on re-staffing major operations of the Reclamation Project. We don't have time to allot to guests."  
  
"You say that as if he's in the way." Not to mention calling Elnor something as impersonal as a _guest_.  
  
"What I am _saying_ ," now Hugh glances back up to her, only Eva can do without the irritation noticeable in his voice, "Is with the danger of the Zhat Vash passed, his talents are wasted here. As well as his potential."  
  
 _It's for his own good_ Eva hears Hugh trying to say, but she still doesn't know why. "Shouldn't he decide that for himself?" she offers, appealing to Hugh's conviction to an individual's right of choice.  
  
Hugh's hands fold in front of him. "Why are you questioning me so much on this?"  
  
"Because he means something to you," she practically exclaims, nearly frustrated herself. "And you mean something to him. Why are you pushing him away? Why are you making excuses?"  
  
It's tense for all of five seconds where Hugh looks genuinely angry, so much so that Eva worries this has spiraled from a discussion into hostility. She steels herself, ready to be yelled at though she has never heard of Hugh yelling at anyone in all the time she's known him. Not even at people he doesn't like.  
  
"I've already made my decision," Hugh says instead, the anger gone as if it had never been. "The _La Sirena_ is expected to dock here in twenty-eight hours. I'll need you to greet them when they arrive and watch over reclamation operations for at least thirty-six hours. I'm leaving on a transport vessel to a Cardassian agricultural colony to make contact with a stranded Borg scout ship in the next few hours."  
  
Processing Hugh's deflection of the original problem with this new information, Eva looks at Hugh. She looks at the sunkenness of his face, the way he won't quite meet her eyes, they way he tries to still a tremor in his left hand. "Can I speak honestly with you, Hugh?"  
  
That question, of all things, gets a reaction from him. "Of course," Hugh says, surprised, "You never have to ask me permission."  
  
"You've always encouraged me to speak," Eva explains, "but this is the first time I think you won't listen to what I have to say." Hugh's brow furrows at that, and Eva takes the plunge, "You've been under more stress than anyone should deal with. You've been overworking yourself, helping everywhere on this cube that you can. You've exhausted yourself to the point that I think your decision making is compromised, and I don't think you should go to the colony, not with how you are now."  
  
Eva stands confidently as Hugh's expression turns uncharacteristically sharp, his right hand digging into his left. "Are you doubting my ability as director?"  
  
"No," Eva says calmly, "I'm doubting that you're taking care of yourself. You're overworked and it's affecting you, as it would anyone."  
  
"What would you have me do, Eva? Leave any survivors aboard that scout ship to be killed because I was a little tired?" Hugh's tone dares her to be contrary. "With the crash they may die due to injuries. If they wander too close to the colony they may be shot by the guards. You know it will happen."  
  
"Then send someone else," Eva moves closer to Hugh's desk until she could lean over it. "They shouldn't be abandoned, but you don't have to do this by yourself, Hugh."  
  
"Even if we had someone to spare, Admiral Dorsey has already volunteered me. We should be grateful that my proposal is finally getting official traction, as inopportune a time as it may be." Hugh is silent for a moment and runs a hand through his hair, pulling it from it's ordered style and then flattening it back down. "I can't leave this up to anyone else. One single misstep is all it would take to have the SBCP thrown away. I can't put that responsibility on another person." Eva watches as Hugh's fingernails dig painfully into the skin at the base of his head. "I have to be the one to do it."  
  
Eva's frustration and confusion consolidates into worry. There is more here she can't see. "Hugh," she speaks gingerly, "is everything alright? Did something happen?"  
  
Hugh breathes in, and Eva thinks, finally, that he might tell her, but then he straightens up and there is wall between them.  
  
"Thank you, Eva. I'll let the department heads know to defer to you over the next few days," The smile he gives her isn't one she'd believe in a trillion years and it's awful. "You can go now."  
  
Eva blinks at the dismissal and Hugh turns his attention back to his holo-screen. She doesn't want to leave, but she isn't sure what else to do. She walks out of the office and hears the lock re-engage behind her.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
They'd taken off from a small trader moon of Jelkano twelve-point-two-five hours ago and should reach the Artifact in ten-point-three-zero hours. Most of the crew was taking the opportunity to relax, but Seven found herself starring up at her ceiling from the small mattress of her bunk. After a while, she concluded there were less confining places to do nothing in.  
  
So she walks the small halls of the _La Sirena_ to the bridge and isn't surprised to see Rios lounging in the captain's seat, one leg over an arm rest and a paper book open in hand. He gives her a small nod as she passes to one of the empty navigation chairs.  
  
The chair creaks noticeably when she leans back, but if there's one thing she knows about Rios is that he takes better care of his ship than himself. She's in no danger of it collapsing.  
  
It almost reminds her of _Voyager_ where materials were distributed to what was necessary and when it came down to a functional warp core or smooth seating, chairs could he heard rotating all over the deck.  
  
The stars blur in long lines outside the window as the ship cruises at warp six. Seven looks out at them passively, her thoughts refusing to narrow down to a point that can be worked out reasonably.  
  
"What's up, _loba_?"  
  
Seven turns her head to look back at Rios still reading. "I'm assuming you're asking if there is a specific personal issue I'm trying to resolve?"  
  
Rios snaps his fingers and points to her from over his book. "Bingo."  
  
"What makes you think I have anything on my mind?"  
  
Rios grins in his self-satisfied way. "Because you only like to pedantically correct me when I hit the nail on the head."  
  
Seven can't help the snort of a laugh that escapes. Rios removes a folded piece of paper from behind his ear and sets it between the pages before closing the book. It rests on his lap and she can read the title: _Man's Search for Meaning_. It seems to be a favored topic of Rios'.  
  
"I'm all ears," Rios says and leans forward towards her, resting his elbows on his legs.  
  
There is a temptation to walk away, or to tell Rios that it doesn't concern him. Seven is not particularly close to anyone on the crew. Even her relationship with Raffi came from mutual want of physical comfort than anything emotional and has stayed agreeably to the occasional late night of sharing stories or sharing a bed.  
  
But she isn't being productive laying down in her room, and the only person she would talk to is at the center of her restlessness.  
  
 _Why not?_ is the attitude that has taken her this far.  
  
"I called Hugh to let him know when we are due to arrive," Seven says, her conversation with Hugh hours ago replaying in her head, all the things he hadn't told her more worrying than anything he'd said. "He looked tired. Unusually so."  
  
Rios nods. "Make sense. The man had one hell of a mountain to climb up when we got him back to the Artifact. I'd be more worried if he looked good."  
  
"I'm wondering if we should have stayed with him to help him get the Reclamation Project back to order," she admits, any past twinge of guilt hidden from Rios' steady gaze.  
  
"Well, we're a group made up of Starfleet failures with problems half a light-year long cobbled together by a forced retiree who's belief in the good nature of people should have gotten him killed years ago, and our arrival might have had, let's say, a small hand in escalating the whole Zhat Vash situation," Rios pauses for a second, "Oh, also we almost got him killed. Indirectly, at the very least," he shrugs, "Maybe he didn't want our help. I wouldn't blame him for wanting us as far away as possible from his fancy cube and important ex-Borg project."  
  
Seven shakes her head. "That's not the kind of person Hugh is," then she sighs. It's uncomfortable sharing personal thoughts with people she does know, much less her brief association with Rios as part of this crew, but her concern for Hugh outweighs her usual preference to keep to herself. "I believe he does not like asking for help."  
  
"Have an uncle like that," Rios says, "Proud man. Wouldn't tell anyone his sonic shower went out. Had to try and fix it himself and ended up recalibrating the vibration settings too high. Broke every window in his house when he turned it on."  
  
"It's not pride." Hugh is magnanimous to his own detriment. There is no room in him for pride beyond when he feels it for other people's accomplishments.  
  
"Then what do you think it is?" Rios asks.  
  
Seven finds her answer to be one she doesn't like. "I don't know," she confesses and glances back out at the stars. "I haven't asked."  
  
"Really?" Rios asks, not surprised so much as thoughtful, "Figured you two were Borg-buddies. He's the only other person I know you talk to who isn't on this ship. Don't have any guesses? Theories? Years of shared experiences to reflect upon? Emotional insights from late night talks over glasses of bourbon and Romulan ale?"  
  
"It's not like that," Seven looks back to Rios and the expectant raise of his eyebrows. It's difficult to explain to someone how she and Hugh's relationship works. Sometimes she doesn't fully understand it herself.  
  
Friends never felt like the correct term, but acquaintances was too impersonal with how they trust each other. Hugh was the only person to call her Annika - a permission no one else had, though some try to use anyway. It's just the effect Hugh has, able to reach people who should have been given up on, and even Seven couldn't resist it for long.  
  
Yet, over the years they have specifically shaped their relationship around lines that aren't to be crossed. Some of it having to do with their contrasting ideals - Hugh believes in second chances, Seven is less inclined - and most of it to avoid things that are too personal to divulge.  
  
"There are things I won't ask Hugh about," she continues, "just as there are things he won't ask about me. We have an understanding."  
  
"Ah," Rios runs his fingers through the short, wiry hair of his beard. "That's the convent thing about an understanding. You don't have to talk about it."  
  
It doesn't sound accusatory, but it does strike the center of her problem. Seven is worried about Hugh, but she isn't sure how to press when the line has been drawn. There's a balance to how they interact, and she's wary of disrupting it.  
  
"Maybe you should try talking to him about it," Rios says, "and I mean really talk. If you're worried, then you might need to push Hugh. And if he pushes back, let him. It'll be better than letting it hang over your head."  
  
He makes it sound simple. "Did you get that from one of your books?"  
  
Rios' smile turns insincere. "Sometimes, when I've had so much to drink Emil has to peel me off the floor, I think about what would have happened if I'd confronted my Captain sooner, after we'd encountered the androids," Rios' grip on his book is deceptively lax as he speaks, "As soon as he took that message after they'd beamed aboard, I had a bad feeling- right in the pit of my stomach, I could _tell_. But I didn't say anything until it was too late. Would it have turned out different if I'd said "screw it" to the chain of command and pushed Alonzo when I knew something was wrong?"  
  
The contrast between the depth the conversation has taken and Rios' typical laid-back air gives way to silence. Seven doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.  
  
"Point is," Rios says after a moment, eyes locked to her's with a seriousness he pretends he doesn't have most the time, "don't let yourself wonder about "what-ifs" if you can do something about it right now."  
  
Seven nods. Rios' expression loosens into his usual ease and he gets himself comfortable in his chair once again. The stars continue to streak past as Seven turns back to watch them. From behind, she hears the small cracks of the spine from Rios opening his book.  
  
Even if it turns out to be nothing, Seven will talk to Hugh. She's had her fill of regrets.  
  
The decision, simple as it is, gives her some peace.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hugh arrives on the Cardassian colony of Lalget within eight hours.  
  
The _USS Hermes_ arrived at the Artifact as expected, one of their crewmen beaming aboard to meet him at the transporter pad. The young Bolian hadn't looked uncomfortable, but her brazen curiosity bordered improper for a woman of her rank.  
  
Eva had come to see him off, surprisingly. Their parting was rightfully clunky, all the ease of their relationship notably absent. Eva's smile was gone and her well-wishes for a safe journey stiff. Hugh himself hadn't done much more than nod, the constant itch under his skin refusing to abate.  
  
He hadn't wanted to leave with such a rift between them, but Eva's doubt in him had hurt, sticking to the back of his mind with a viscid-like quality. He had been trying so hard to keep everything from falling apart, and the first time he has to make a decision she didn't like, Eva argued it as if he was about to do something monstrously wrong, disrespectful in way that was personal.  
  
She questioned his judgment. _His_ judgment. Hugh was the only pillar preventing the Reclamation Project from collapsing. He was the one who has to throw himself at the feet of the Romulan Free State and the Federation and ask for resources and workers for a cause that is steadily becoming unprofitable to them.  
  
Hugh does everything to ensure these great powers won't ball them all up like a ruined piece of paper and throw them away, so inclined as the galaxy is to do with ex-Borg, so ready to wash their hands of them. He knows best, and if he decides that Elnor is better off far from the Artifact, and from Hugh, then Eva will learn to respect that.  
  
After he is beamed onto the _Hermes_ there is a quick round of introductions to the main crew. The occasional glances his way easily ignored as the ship proceeded to Rnn'Vel II. Easier still after his Bolian escort, Lt. Alorna, showed him to a room to rest for the duration of the trip.  
  
Hugh doesn't rest. Though the room was different, the shadows felt the same.  
  
Hugh and Lt. Alorna transport down to the colony as soon as they reach the planet, and immediately the heat and humidity press down on him. Rnn'Vel II was chosen for an agricultural territory due to it's similar climate conditions to Cardassia. Even fifteen years after the Dominion War ended the Cardassian homeworld continues to rebuild, and most of it's farmland was still unable to produce the crops needed to sustain the population.  
  
Fortunately, many foods native to Cardassia are able to grow here, and a hand was extended to allow Cardassia to establish a colony on a Federation planet.  
  
It's a beautiful example of how even an enemy they were once at war with can be given what they need to survive, and it can be given kindly if not freely. Hugh would take more time to appreciate it, but as a man accustomed to the controlled climate of a starship for most of his life, the oppressive heat was unpleasant to say the least, and it makes him rethink his penchant of black on black. Hugh takes some consolation in the fact that it isn't just him as Lt. Alorna doesn't appear to be handling the hot weather much better.  
  
Just as the sweat begins to roll down the side of his face, an important looking Cardassian in military dress flanked by two Cardassian guards approaches them.   
  
"Director Hugh," the lead Cardassian greets mildly, his eyes skimming over the implants along Hugh's face. His hair is oiled back pristinely as is the military style, but there is a thin layer of grit over patches of gray scales and between the plating of his uniform that speak of a man who works rather than sits behind a desk. "I am Gul Dokor. I am in charge of the Lalget colony."  
  
"It's good to meet you," Hugh replies. Gul Dokor seems usually reserved for a Cardassian, so Hugh isn't sure if the sentiment is returned.  
  
Gul Dokor nods and addresses Lt. Alorna. "You may return to your ship. We will take care of the Director from here."  
  
Lt. Alorna tries and fails to repress her relief, not that Hugh can blame her- he can see the skin around her cartilaginous ridge start to darken from the harsh sunlight. "Good luck, Director. Gul Dokor." she taps the comm badge on her chest. "Alorna to _Hermes_ , one to beam up." and she disappears in a wave of light particles.  
  
Gul Dokor gestures to one of the Cardassian guards and the young man steps forward. "Director, this is Potek. He will be assigned to you for the duration of your stay. We have a room available for you in the main building for living quarters. Potek can take you there."  
  
"Thank you, Gul Dokor," Hugh adjusts the bag on his shoulder in a way he hopes conveys he doesn't need Potek to take it, "But I would prefer to start on making contact with the downed Borg ship as soon as possible." So much time has passed already.  
  
"I appreciate your call to action," Gul Dokor says, "But we will have to wait until Starfleet's appointee arrives."  
  
Suddenly the air isn't so unbearably hot so much as it vanishes all together.   
  
"I'm sorry?" Hugh asks, none too pleased with where this is going.  
  
Gul Dokor raises a brow ridge, but otherwise doesn't react to Hugh's indignation. "We were given implicit instructions not to approach the Borg vessel until an appointed member of Starfleet is present. I take it you were not informed?"  
  
"No," Hugh says, "I was not." He tries to keep his temper in check, but the sun bares down aggressively from above, and the itch that has only gotten worse demands he do something. "Would we be able to contact Starfleet to see if we can get a head start? I'd really rather not waste anymore time."  
  
"My instructions were clear, Director Hugh," Gul Dokor says with a modicum of empathy. "It seems the oversight of Starfleet is an occurrence we are both familiar with."  
  
Hugh can't say anything. He looks out past the gray utilitarian buildings of Lalget towards the sand-colored mountains in the distance with an anger he hasn't felt in some time growing. In any other scenario where a ship was downed and lives were possibly at stake, Starfleet would not hesitate to act.  
  
But when those lives were Borg? The Borg were the monsters under every bed in the universe. They don't matter. And this? Hugh standing here on this planet? This wasn't Starfleet finally opening up to the idea that the Borg can be helped, that under everything they are just as much the victims as everyone else. Oh no, this was Starfleet _humoring_ him.  
  
"Come, Director," Gul Dokor's voice pulls him back, and Hugh realizes his fist is shaking. "I understand most warm-blooded species do not like the heat. Inside should be more comfortable."  
  
Hugh follows along into Lalget's main compound. Gul Dokor doesn't fill the accompanying silence with small talk, not that he seems the type, so Hugh is left to simmer with his thoughts.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hugh is shown to a room that's slightly larger than the one he stayed in while on the La Sirena with simple furniture and amenities. Gul Dokor tells him ask if there is anything he needs. Hugh, in a fit of touchiness, asks when the Starfleet attendee is expected to arrive.  
  
"They are planning on taking advantage of a ship transporting a group of engineers to help us set up additional irrigation pivots, so I believe they should be here within thirteen hours," Gul Dokor remains civil despite Hugh's attitude, which he certainly doesn't deserve. Gul Dokor seems like the kind of man who has had to deal with his fair share of bureaucracy.  
  
"I apologize for my temperament, Gul Dokor," Hugh tells him, "I have had a very long week, and you've been nothing but courteous."  
  
"Starfleet has a way of... illicitng such reactions, don't they?" Gul Dokor says impartially, then inclines his head. "If you'll excuse me, Director, I have duties that need to be attended to. Potek is posted outside your room if you require anything."  
  
Gul Dokor leaves, and Hugh lasts an hour pacing the length of his room before he pulls up the crash information given to him just for something to do before he starts pulling out his hair.  
  
He's furious at being forced to wait, but he can try to use his time productively.  
  
The surrounding mountains of Rnn'Vel II have a native quartz that tends to mirror signals, so the data from the scanner logs has a few inconsistencies and gaps. The basic size and shape of the ship is listed and life signs were present at the time of the scan but the number was unknown.  
  
Hugh's eyes tread tiredly through the report, his leg bouncing, until he reads the coordinates of the crash site.  
  
He pauses, and an idea begins to form.  
  
While being taken to his room, Hugh had passed by an area with a small transporter pad. It was likely meant for basic site-to-site transportation, pre-programed with certain destinations to allow workers to get to different areas of the colony quickly.  
  
Hugh bites his lip. The fingers of his left hand twitch.  
  
It wouldn't be difficult to reprogram a transporter like that, not after a life of Borg technology. All he'd have to do was work around the pre-settings, and he could input the coordinates of the crash. No more waiting around for institutions who don't care. No more waiting to be told what he can and cannot do like a good little ex-drone.  
  
He could very well get in trouble.  
  
The skin of his lip splits open under his teeth. That doesn't matter. He is going to help his people.  
  
Hugh stands and opens the bag he brought with him. He empties it of his portable regenerator, his clothes and other such things, but leaves his small med-kit and tricorder. He secures it over his shoulder and opens the door of his room.  
  
As naturally as he can, Hugh looks out into the hall. Near the far end he sees Potek speaking with a young Cardassian woman, hanging closely on every word she says. Even luckier, Hugh's destination is in the opposite direction.  
  
He goes out into the hall and walks as hastily as he can without being obvious. He makes it to the other end, just where the hall opens up into a main area, when a voice calls out.  
  
"Director Hugh? Sir?"  
  
The heavy steps of Cardassian military boots proceed towards him as Potek tries to get his attention. Hugh has to keep from breaking out into a run, because everything is fine so far. Just fine. He pretends not to hear Potek and rounds the corner as quickly as possible.  
  
As soon as he clears the hall, Hugh ducks into an adjacent walkway. He presses himself as close to the wall as he can as Potek comes into view. The neck ridges give Cardassians a limited range of head movement, and Potek passes by without seeing him.  
  
Hugh waits until Potek's calls of, "Director Hugh?" are almost to far away to make out to continue on his way to the transporter. He passes multiple Cardassian workers from scientists to other guards, all of them giving him some sort of glance or another, but Hugh keeps his head high and nods politely to each one of them, and they leave him to his business. He is supposed to be here after all.  
  
It takes no time for Hugh to get to the transporter. The only other person nearby is a maintenance worker replacing a light projector with earbuds in, oblivious to the world around him. Swiftly, Hugh's fingers fly over the console controls, working at a speed that would make an android proud. He's able to override one of the approved destinations and replace it with his own. He sets the transporter to energize, starting the timer for thirty seconds which automatically locks the controls until the sequence is completed.  
  
The agency that's pressed him this far thrums as he steps onto the pad, like leaning over the edge of a high place ready to jump off.  
  
Then Potek runs up to the transporter, eyes wide and slightly out of breath. "Director Hugh, what are you doing?"  
  
"Beaming over to the Borg ship." Because there's no point in lying now.  
  
Potek's eyes widen even further. "Sir, I-I don't think you can do that!"  
  
The transporter begins to sound with energy as the timer nears zero. "Well. I am," Hugh says, and Potek looks around frantically. The maintenance worker bobs his head to music only he can hear, and a pair of agriculturalists who walk by stare at them dubiously, neither of any assistance.  
  
Just as dematerialization starts, Potek leaps onto the pad. In the split-second it takes Hugh to process the shock at something so incredibly reckless, they are no longer in Lalget.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
They are enclosed by large rocks in dusty reds and dull oranges, the jagged mountain range closer than it was before. Sand shifts beneath Hugh's feet, and the air is once again intolerably hot.   
  
But Hugh can ignore all that for the time being. Potek is by his side, eyes squinting in the glaring light as he takes in their surroundings. "Do you have _any_ idea how dangerous that was?" he says to this foolish, foolish young man, "Do you want your atoms spread across two-hundred kilometers?"   
  
Potek has the audacity to look offended. "I am assigned to you, sir! I am supposed to watch over you, and you decided to transport here in defiance of Gul Dokor's orders!"  
  
"In defiance of Starfleet orders, actually," Hugh corrects, "But that doesn't matter. If you'd been only three seconds later, I'd be talking to half of you. You should know better than to jump on an active transporter pad."  
  
With youthful bravado, Potek puffs out his chest and draws himself up to his full height. Hugh might try to appear more impressed if the humidity wasn't causing Potek's hair to curl around his ears. "This is my first post after graduating the academy," Potek says proudly, "It is a great honor to serve the State on an agricultural colony. If I had allowed you to go, it would have been a disgrace to myself and my Gul."  
  
Some of Potek's boastfulness diminishes. "Even so, I will be lucky if I am sent back to Cardassia with my supranasals still on my face," he frowns at Hugh, "Why did you come here?"  
  
"Because I'm tired of being told to wait," Hugh does feel culpable for unintentionally placing Potek in this position, but the itch has turned into an anxious urgency and it doesn't allow him to wallow in it. He didn't ask Potek to come and he certainly didn't force him.  
  
Hugh takes the tricorder out of his bag and scans the area. The natural minerals do scatter the readings, but the signal is strong enough to point him in the right direction. He goes forward maybe a foot and Potek clears his throat loudly.  
  
"We should stay here," Potek asserts, "Until others come. It could be dangerous."  
  
Hugh turns back to his Cardassian guard and notices how Potek's hand rests on his waist just above his disruptor. The rational part of Hugh's mind tells him it's nothing, merely how Potek stands. But the urgency whispers sharply at how easily this could be a threat.  
  
Stay here. Or else.  
  
"You're welcome to try and stop me," Hugh says coolly, "But I don't think the Federation would appreciate mistreatment of one of their civilians. Especially considering the favors they've done for Cardassia." He very much doubts the Federation would retaliate in any considerable way, he is ex-Borg after all. Unwanted. Disposable. But the only way to meet a threat is with one of his own. He isn't going to let this child stop him.  
  
Potek shifts back, stunned, his hands going up as if to placate. "I... I did not mean to imply- I, I only meant that we have come unprepared. We don't know their numbers, nor their condition - the land itself could be unsafe! - and we are only two."  
  
It's a reaction so earnest it reminds him of Elnor - and that feels like he's just had his head held under ice water. Potek hasn't done anything to deserve this aggression that comes and goes in waves, each time more forceful than the last. Eva's concerns come back to him, _you've exhausted yourself to the point that I think your decision making is compromised_ , she had said, and if it were Hugh on the outside looking in, would he not say the same to anyone else?  
  
Maybe... maybe he is...  
  
 _No._  
  
There is nothing wrong with what he's doing. Yes, he is tired. He's tired of a lot of things. But right now, he's doing what he needs to do. What must be done.  
  
"If you're uncomfortable, you can stay here," he tells Potek and starts walking. It takes less than a minute for him to hear the hiss of displaced sand as Potek follows after him.  
  
They continue in complete silence for a few yards, the muggy air soundless as it sluggishly blows. Sun-bleached shrubs grow in sparsely from the ground and thick auburn moss thrives in the shaded spots between the rocks. Between the sun and the air, sweat begins to crawl down Hugh's back.  
  
In his peripheral, Hugh sees Potek's slumped form. It's like he's trying to hunch his shoulders, but the broad upper body of his Cardassian physique makes that nearly impossible. Even ensnared in his need to _move_ , Hugh can't ignore responsibility in this.  
  
"I will talk to Gul Dokor," Hugh finds himself telling Potek. "After I make contact with the ship, if the Lalget guard or Starfleet haven't gotten to us. You shouldn't get in trouble for what I do."  
  
"I should be held accountable," Potek responds hesitantly, "I wasn't watching after you I as I should have been."  
  
Hugh thinks back and amusement tugs at his lips. "Your friend in the hall?"  
  
Potek pauses. "You saw Mora?" At Hugh's nod the scales on Potek's cheeks darken. "She works in one of the botanical labs. She was returning my copy of _Unto The Land_ that I'd lent her. She believes the motivation of Kelnan Temas doesn't truly begin until after chapter three when the Cardassian Institute of Art is defaced. She's wrong, of course, but she was adamant in arguing her point."  
  
The affection in Potek's voice is surpassed only by the affection on his face. Hugh smiles. "She sounds like quite the debater."  
  
"The best," Potek says, his youthful fancy shining through, then adds, "Hopefully, she will wish to continue our deliberation once I am undoubtedly transferred back home."  
  
Hugh combs back the stands of hair sticking to his forehead. "Your assignment was to escort me, correct?" he asks Potek and Potek nods. "Are you not escorting me now? You're doing what you were ordered to do. That's hardly grounds to be dismissed."  
  
"I don't think Gul Dokor will see it that way," Potek admits despite his thoughtful expression.  
  
"I've been known to be convincing." His current track record may not support that, but Hugh started his life proving to a man who had every reason in the galaxy to destroy him that he was an individual. Hugh's sure, given his limited standing if nothing else, that he can persuade Gul Dokor to go easy on one of his guards when he was the one at fault.  
  
Potek eyes him shrewdly, but he no longer hunches as they walk.  
  
Hugh's tricorder leads them a few more yards to the mouth of a cave hidden along the russet side of the mountain. He double-checks the readings, but they say the signal is strongest just further ahead.  
  
"This doesn't seem right," he mutters to himself.  
  
"What doesn't?" Potek asks, close enough to hear, and leans over to look at the tricorder screen.  
  
"The colony's scanners picked up a crashed Borg scout ship, correct?"  
  
"That is what I was told, sir," Potek confirms.  
  
"Then where is the ship? The evidence of a crash?" Hugh sweeps an arm out at the vast, untouched landscape surrounding them. Sand may not show any obvious disturbances in regards to movement, but would the heat of the impact not melt the silica components and fuse the minerals? Shouldn't the plants, as few as there are, be burned or crushed? Wouldn't the numerous rocks shows fractures or chips or damage of any kind?  
  
A scout ship is small, but it isn't small enough to crash into a planet without leaving a trace.  
  
"Were there additional readings of a second Borg ship in the area?" The Borg collect their dead. It's possible another ship was sent to retrieve whatever remained of the crash, but there should still be residual, some sort of debris left behind.  
  
"Not that I was informed of," Potek says as he surveys the area with intent, "but I am only a guard. It's possible that I wouldn't have been told if the information was not necessary for me to hear."  
  
Potek doesn't sound remotely confident in his own suggestion, so Hugh doesn't bother with it. He can't imagine an instance where a colony as small and distanced as Lalget wouldn't inform it's entire population of a second Borg ship proceeding a first. And a second Borg ship would have been noticed. Every scanner on Rnn'Vel II is sweeping the outer system.  
  
"Listen to your gut," one Lt. Commander Data had told him many years ago on a planet with no name, gifting a marginally wiser Hugh then in charge of a few dozen lives recently freed from a malicious dictator with parting guidance. "I have learned that it is important to surmise one's own intuition of a situation as the facts of the matter are almost never entirely known. This is referred to as a "gut-feeling". Geordi had explained this to me. I have attempted to conceive a sense of intuition on multiple occasions, all resulting in failure presumably due to my lack of "gut". I believe this advice will serve you better."  
  
Hugh was never sure how much to rely on his gut when it felt like most the universe had it out for him. But over time as the cold logic of the Borg gave way to the disarray of individuality, Hugh tried to to find a balance. Right now, his gut is telling him something is wrong as the evidence of it stares him in the face.  
  
And yet, there is a voice rooted inside that isn't his head or his heart or his gut. And it begs him to go. Just a few more feet. Just a little bit longer.  
  
 _You're so close._  
  
"Should we go back?" Potek asks.  
  
"No," Hugh answers quickly. "No. We keep going." The survivors. Focus on the possibility of survivors. He was here for them. They _needed_ him.  
  
Without another word, Hugh walks into the cave. Inside it is not an opening into an area but the beginning of a winding passageway. It's cooler at least, though the sunlight only goes so far into the cave until it can no longer reach. His cybernetic eye compensates for the lack of light so he isn't staggering forward in the dark.  
  
The passageway narrows to the point he has to walk side-ways to maneuver along the rocks walls, but the readings are getting stronger.  
  
He gets though the worst of it, no doubt a few new scuffs to his uniform, and the cave opens back up some. Up ahead, Hugh sees the faint glow of light, hazy as it works against the darkness. He sighs in relief, and a hand grabs his arm from behind.  
  
Hugh jerks around, adrenaline spiking through his heart, to Potek. He'd completely forgotten Potek.  
  
"Director Hugh, I think we should leave," Potek whispers. "It can't be safe." Hugh knows he's worried, can see it in his eyes, but he's almost there.  
  
"It's fine," Hugh says and yanks him arm out of Potek's grasp. "Borg drones don't attack individuals. As long as we are unobtrusive, they won't notice us. _Do not_ make yourself a threat," he warns and heads towards the light.  
  
The cave opens up to a small cavern, stalagmites and stalactites encasing the area like the teeth of a great beast. In the distance the _drip, drip, drip_ of water echoes off dense stone, almost hypnotic in it's cadence. At the center of the cavern is a raised rock formation not unlike a table where a light projector illuminates the space, and next to the projector sits a single Borg drone.  
  
Sitting might indicate that it has suffered impairment or is attempting to preserve energy, but the drone, small and slight in stature, kicks it's legs out like a child waiting on their parents. Shuffling behind Hugh as Potek missteps along the uneven ground alerts the drone to their presence, and it turns to face them.  
  
It - or rather - _she_ smiles at Hugh with an ease and delight that most xBs he's worked with for years have still have issues expressing. Hugh doesn't know what to make of it.  
  
She hops off the rock but doesn't move towards him, looking like she may be of Human origin in the light of the projector. Hugh takes in her form, unable to find any signs of damage or injury. What he does notice, and it is impossible not to, is the style of her exo-plating. It's sleeker, missing much of the bulk that makes up the typical Borg drone. The implants are more streamlined, adhering closer to the body. The optical device of her right eye molds along her face instead of the awkward jut that most have.  
  
She looks distressingly like a Borg Queen in her efficient simplicity. It contrasts distinctly with the soft youth of her face - she must still be a teenager, no older than Ninth of Nine - and even more so with the unabashed happiness of her expression.  
  
"Hugh," she says bright and admiringly, her tone singular instead of multiple, "we have been waiting for you."  
  
This is wrong. Hugh knows it is. His left hand shakes, but he needs to keep going.  
  
The drone reaches for something on the rock behind her, just out of sight. Hugh's distantly aware of Potek tensing next to him, but it doesn't mean anything until he realizes Potek's hand is reaching for his disruptor.  
  
"Potek!" Hugh shouts just before the acute pitch of energy-fire cuts the air and the smell of burning carbon reaches his nose.   
  
Only it's Potek who falls forward, his eyes frozen in shock, finger still hooked under the latch of his holster. He hits the ground and doesn't move. Hugh isn't given the chance to go to him. An abrupt sting at his neck, followed by the telltale hiss of a hypo-spray, and Hugh slumps backward into the arms of someone behind him.  
  
The last thing Hugh sees before everything goes dark is the young drone girl and her smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh is missing. Many people aren't happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the wait. One day I will keep to the schedule I set for myself. One day...
> 
> Going to be honest I wasn't super thrilled with about 75% of this chapter. Seven as a character now is kind of hard to pin down. I know Jerri Ryan said how Seven of Nine puts on a front of acting more human in ST:Picard, which I think is interesting, but leaves me less than confident writing her. Still, it must be done. I do love writing Elnor though.
> 
> Continuous thanks for the kind words and kudos. I love to hear your thoughts! Discussions are the embers to the fire of my Trek-soul.

The looming figure of the Artifact will always be an unnerving one. It doesn't matter that it's been given a name, that ships are no longer disabled and reeled in but can come and go freely, that there's a poorly hidden security perimeter of Romulan warbirds.  
  
It is still a Borg cube, unnatural and motionless as it sits against the vast emptiness of Romulan space.  
  
Seven stares at it as the _La Sirena_ smoothly continues towards the entrance to the docking bay until the towering bulk of the cube fills every inch of the ship's viewports. Briefly, she recalls a story she had read when on _Voyager_ of a man swallowed by a great whale for his disobedience.  
  
Seven-point-eight-two standard years ago, Hugh had accepted the position of Executive Director to the Borg Reclamation Project. Seven had been on a Fenris stakeout, given a junker to hide out in a satellite depot. Even over the fuzzy image quality of her subspace receiver, Hugh's optimism over the prospect of rehabilitating Borg drones had been clear, and he'd asked her to join him.  
  
It had been as hopeful as it was indirect, siting the need for people with adequate experience to sign on.  
  
In reality, she knew he had been asking for a friend, disguising it as asking for help.  
  
Perhaps she should have said yes. It isn't easy being alone, and Hugh had been ready to put himself into a position where he was going to be very alone.  
  
And Seven knew at the time it wasn't just for him. Hugh had expressed his worry over the dangerous work being a member of the Rangers entailed, critical over how she continued to process Icheb's death. Initially, she'd found it equal parts amusing and irritating, considering he, an ex-Borg, was about to work directly under the Romulan government.  
  
As recent events have proven, his work had turned out far more dangerous to him than her's had to her.  
  
"With it being a Romulan controlled project, Starfleet simply wants as many of it's own people involved," she had told him. The Borg had already swallowed her once, and she was lucky to have survived it. She is... wary of what could be, as she should be, and she chooses to avoid involvement all together. It is best that way. To chance the whale again was too tempting, too dangerous. Hugh was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for. Put into the same situation, Seven was much less confident in herself.  
  
Icheb's loss had still been too fresh, his murder unavenged. Starfleet had sat on it's hands despite having one of it's own butchered alive and Seven's patience for politics had exceeded it's limits. It would have been easy for the power the Artifact held to have provoked her into a malevolent course of action.  
  
"I'm not Starfleet," Hugh had said, accepting Seven's rejection with a sad but understanding smile. She hadn't felt good about it.  
  
"You're as close are they're going to get." And that was the last time they spoke about it.  
  
The _La Sirena_ passes through the atmospheric shields and Rios nestles it between a Romulan Bird-of-Prey and an Andorian Luul-class cruiser. The landing gears settle against the tritanium floor with a placid thud.  
  
"Another smooth landing by yours truly," Rios announces as he gets up from his chair. He holds up his hand to Jurati, fingers splayed, and Jurati slaps it with her own hand with her typical shy enthusiasm.  
  
Seven never understood the predisposition to express oneself with a "high five", but it does reminder her of the interplay between Tom Paris and Harry Kim, and her lips do quirk in the smallest of smiles when Raffi rolls her eyes fondly at the two from her place at the second navigation console.  
  
The bay doors of the ship open and the loading ramp descends. Raffi stands and moves over to her while Rios and Jurati make their way down. In her peripheral vision, Seven notices Picard's hand tighten into a fist, hidden where it rests behind his back. Experiences with the Borg leave lasting affects, regardless of how one may advocate that they have moved past it, but Picard forces his fingers loose and proceeds after the two with no further hesitation.  
  
The last time Seven stepped foot onto the Artifact was when she had answered the S.O.S comm chip she had given specifically to Hugh and found herself transporting right in the middle of a vicious Tal Shiar seizure with nothing but a phaser at her side and a terrified Romulan in way over his head.  
  
This visit is a marked improvement.  
  
"Hmm," Rafi speaks up, but only loud enough for Seven to hear, "Not exactly the, uh, hustle and bustle I was expecting." She cocks her head, indicating the kilometers of unused space where ships should be, entire docking platforms devoid of anyone.  
  
Seven silently agrees, eying the small groups of platform operators and engineers. What should be no less than a hundred people is no more than twenty. Hugh's worries over his staffing needs are well deserved. It's frustrating that he allows himself to put up with it.  
  
"Oh, is that...? It is! Hi, Elnor!" Jurati's voice carries loud and far in the emptiness of the bay, her face going pink only after she notices the halted conversations and the attention from the staff. "Ah, sorry, don't mind me! I didn't think... acoustics and Borg tritanium and all... that..."  
  
Jurati has a child's exuberance. The others may find it endearing, but Seven does not. Her open displeasure is met with a playful nudge from Raffi. "Give the girl a break," she whispers against her ear, "Not everyone can be as cool and collected as you."  
  
Seven doesn't respond, but let's her scowl recede back into her usual frown.  
  
Elnor is walking towards them, following the lead of Hugh's ex-Borg Trill aid Eva. Seven has meet her twice in person and three times over communications. Seven has found her to be efficient, able to keep up with Hugh and at times pull him back when it is necessary.  
  
But Eva's face is one of ineffectively hidden panic. That might not mean much considering how difficult running the project has been lately, but it's Elnor's expression that creates an unwelcome sensation in Seven's stomach.  
  
She's seen it once before, the last time she was here. Elnor's hands wet with red blood, unable to speak.  
  
 _Where's Hugh?_  
  
Eva cuts past Jurati's welcoming smile and ignores Rios' open hand, everyone else disregarded as if they aren't there. Eva stays on Seven like a drowning man to land. The sensation in her stomach burns at the back of her throat.  
  
"Seven of Nine," Eva's voice is barely constrained relief disguised as composure, "I'm glad you have arrived."  
  
" _We're_ glad to be here," Rios pipes up cheerily.  
  
Eva's gaze doesn't waiver. "I know your trip was long. Could I offer you some hospitality?"  
  
Seven's learned enough tact to know when someone doesn't want to have certain conversations where anyone could hear them. "I wouldn't say no to a drink."  
  
"Excellent," Eva says and turns. "This way, please."  
  
Seven walks without looking back. The others will know to follow.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hugh's office is as inviting as a room on a Borg cube can be made. Everything is placed with a systematic care to look like one would think an office to look like, to the point where Seven has told Hugh plainly that he's trying too hard, even if no one else would notice how deliberate it's all arranged.  
  
He still won't keep alcohol, which is a damn shame.  
  
"Having all your furniture off by a margin of five degrees isn't going to change anyone's opinion of the Borg, Hugh," she had told him.  
  
Hugh cared too much about how other people saw him. He still does. Seven experienced a moment of that, when _Voyager_ had returned to Earth and suddenly the Federation was much larger than the one-hundred forty-three crew members she knew by name.  
  
It didn't last long, stopping when the medical officer in charge of her physical examination failed to hide her repulsion when Seven corrected her after being addressed as Annika Hansen. People were not going to over-look her assimilation, so Seven wasn't going to waste time trying to accommodate to their sensibilities.  
  
But Hugh was so afraid of making the wrong impression, so careful to show that ex-Borg were like any other race.  
  
"Oh course not," he'd replied, yet still made sure that everything was perfectly off-center. His desk five-point-zero-eight centimeters closer the the right. The edge of the small end table angled to dig into the arm of the sofa. "That's why I added throw pillows. The tassels make them fun, don't you think?"  
  
Seven and the crew stand on a rug that has joined the decor since then. It's a simple contemporary piece that is Romulan in design- plausibly a sad excuse of a peace-offering from an Empire officiant attempting to smooth over any "bad feelings" for the Tal Shiar incident. It isn't difficult to imagine Hugh accepting it with grace and modesty.  
  
"Hugh was called away to Rnn'Vel II, to the Cardassian colony of Lalget," Eva begins, restless near Hugh's desk. "They reported a Borg ship crashing outside the colony. Hugh was to make contact with any survivors."  
  
Seven follows Eva's gaze as it flicks momentarily to a spot where the lip of the rug bunches against the leg of a chair, an undoubtedly intentional flaw. "Lalget contacted us four hours ago to say Hugh is no longer on Rnn'Vel II."  
  
"Someone abducted Hugh?" Picard asks, "Has Starfleet been made aware? The Federation?"  
  
"The incident was reported to Starfleet," Eva replies distantly, "All they have told us is that they are starting an investigation."  
  
It's the deliberate choice in words that doesn't sit right with Seven. "Are they investigating a kidnapping," she asks, "or something else?"  
  
Elnor, who hasn't acknowledged anyone, much less said a word, tenses further on top of his already rigid stance, starring hard at a point on the floor as his fingers dig into his arms. Eva breaks away from Seven's eyes.  
  
"Both," she answers like a bad taste in her mouth.  
  
"Both?" questions Jurati unhelpfully. "What does 'both' mean?"  
  
Eva's face hardens, her frustration evident. "Lalget hasn't told us much. I don't know if it's because they don't trust us, or if they don't want to spread misinformation without gathering all relevant data, but they did tell us that Hugh left the colony against orders from Starfleet to wait for an appointee to join him."  
  
That's certainly a bold move considering Hugh's desperation to maintain the delicate balance between the Romulans, the Artifact, and Starfleet. Even as angry as Seven knows Hugh's been getting, it's unlike him to do something so careless.  
  
"So they think, what?" Rios braces his arm on the back of a chair, "He deserted the Federation? He ran away?" he makes a sound of disbelief. "I haven't known the man long, but he doesn't seem the type."  
  
"He isn't!" Eva assures, her nerves showing. "But everyone is upset and refuses to tell us anything useful or listen to us." she squeezes the data-pad in her hand tightly. Seven can see recent cracks in the glass along the side. "Elnor and I are the only ones who know. The xBs won't react well to Hugh missing, and I fear the staff might leave if told."  
  
"Please help us," she says imploringly, not just to Seven, but to all of them. "I know Starfleet is more good than bad, so much more, but I... I don't trust their thoroughness in this, not when it comes to xBs. Not when it comes to Hugh."  
  
Eva looks down at the floor, ashamed of her admission. Her hands clench and unclench, the data-pad at her anxious mercy. Seven agrees with her entirely, cold at how quickly this is becoming an echo of Icheb's own abduction. It is Picard, though, who walks over to Eva and takes one of her hands between his.  
  
"My dear," he starts gently, "Prejudice, I am afraid, has been an ongoing battle. It has been too slow a process to find acceptance from an institution whose core values have been steeped in looking past our own personal reservations to find what can unite us."  
  
Picard gives her a smile, no longer a preacher giving platitudes but a man who understands the fallibility in what he represents. "You do not need to feel sorry for being on the opposing end of an imperfect system. Starfleet is not perfect, and it has taken me too many years to accept that fact."  
  
The words are so simple, but spoken by Picard gives them meaning. Eva visibly calms, reassured in a way Picard is famous for. Even Seven is not unaffected.  
  
"Now," Picard says, "Let's try and figure out where to get the information we need. Who is the officer assigned between the Artifact and Starfleet?"  
  
"Admiral Demetrius Dorsey," Eva tells him after a moment of hesitation that reveals her dissatisfaction of that fact.  
  
"Do you know him?" Seven asks Picard. Hugh made it no secret that he didn't like this Dorsey as from what she has been told Dorsey made it no secret he didn't like Hugh, but Picard has friends in many places.  
  
"I do not know him personally, no, but I knew his name back when he was a captain. His reputation was a man who handled himself and his crew under some of the worst circumstances, but also as rather prideful and arrogant."  
  
"He is not a good man," Elnor's voice surprises everyone, "He does not care for this place though it is under his charge. He will not speak to us."  
  
He doesn't speak further. The silence that follows nearly turns uncomfortable until Rios puts an end to it.  
  
"Well, it's a good we know how to deal with things when Starfleet feels uncooperative," he says, "Sounds to me like we need to go to Rnn'Vel II."  
  
"That will take pulling a few strings," Raffi speaks from Seven's shoulder, "but I can take care of that. I know a guy who knows a guy whose cousin works comms on Lalget. It should get us landing clearance."  
  
"There are a few people I can reach out to," Picard adds, "Someone will know something."  
  
Rios smirks. "Looks like we've got ourselves a plan."  
  
Seven feels the air waft her hair from Raffi's snort. "No Cris, what we have is a half-assed start to what wishes it was a plan."  
  
Rios shrugs, unperturbed. "I've done better with less."  
  
They descend into bickering and refining the details of what needs to be done. Seven keeps to herself, adding only when required. She keeps one eye on Elnor, watching as he continues to recede into himself. Hopefully, she will have the diligence to get him to snap out of it. Or she'll have Picard do it.  
  
The other eye watches Eva, an uncertain smile slowly forming with the fragile beginnings of hope. Yet there are cracks in it like the data-pad she holds, and Seven wants to know why.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The crew manages to convince Elnor to show them to guest quarters to freshen up before they depart, Raffi on his arm as she tries to coax conversation out of him and Jurati asking if she might have the chance to speak to any of the doctors here who deal in prosthetics.  
  
It's an effective front with so much undetermined.  
  
Rios gives her a quick look when he notices she's staying back, but says nothing as he leaves.  
  
Seven waits until Rios and Picard have left the office to close the door and lock it. Hugh had given her access to his spaces years ago. A gesture of trust. A home if she ever needed it.  
  
She turns to Eva. "What else?"  
  
For her part, Eva doesn't act surprised, but she still falters. "I am not sure what you mean."  
  
Seven takes the data-pad from Eva's hands, careful of the splintered glass. "This is Hugh's. You tried to get into it, but couldn't, and when you couldn't you became upset."  
  
Eva flushes in embarrassment and nods.  
  
"That means there is something you're worried about and you think the answers will be on this pad. You will tell me what you were trying to find."  
  
"In truth? I'm not sure," Absentmindedly, Eva rubs the implant beneath her left ear. She catches herself after a second, then wrings her hands together. "Lately, Hugh has been... troubled. The recovery has been difficult, and Hugh has been running himself to exhaustion. But there have been recent issues, emotional faults in his logic. He has been pushing people away. He hasn't been himself."  
  
There are specifics Eva is omitting, but those details aren't relevant right now. "Do you believe his behavior and his disappearance are connected?" Hugh wouldn't abandon the xBs. There is no doubt of that in Seven's mind.  
  
"He has never dealt with more stress than he deals with now. I believe his state of mind was exploited. Whoever took him could have used his distraction as an advantage." Eva shrugs. It is a small and helpless gesture."I had hoped to gain insight, an idea of what was troubling him, but the pad is encrypted. Hugh was always careful to keep his personal information secure, even more so now after the attack. Perhaps you could...?"  
  
A swift drag across the screen powers it up. The display glitches a variety of colors where the cracks are deepest, but it's otherwise functional. Quickly Seven types in codes Hugh has given her in the past, and when those fail she tries a succession of algorithms, and when those fail she tries any combination of names, events, and places Hugh holds dear until those too fail and she has to restrain herself from throwing the pad at a wall.  
  
Eva hangs her head. Tears well along her thin lashes. "I want answers. I want Hugh to be alright," her voice cracks and the tears fall. "I don't know what we will do without him."  
  
Seven isn't one to comfort. Her problems are difficult enough to handle, much less another's, but she lays a hand on Eva's shoulder, the silver implants along the flexor digitorum of her hand tighten as she gently squeezes.  
  
She really could use a drink.  
  
She doesn't know how these pieces fit together. She doesn't even know what all the pieces are. All she does is focus on Eva's quiet sniffling, because the alternative is imagining Hugh strapped to a table on some backworld planet, begging for help that won't get there in time.  
  
Seven had lost her son and she's still putting herself back together. She isn't sure what will happen if she looses her brother.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Elnor's shame weighs him like stone and fills his stomach with an empty sickness. It is no less than he deserves. The nuns were right. He could never be qualankhkai.  
  
For what true qualankhkai refutes their duty and looses their Bonded?  
  
There is no joy in seeing his friends again, even as they surround him with smiles and stories. Their words are lost to him, no more than whispers in the midst of a storm. Many times they try to meet his gaze, but Elnor cannot bare to look at them, cannot bare the thought of what they might see.  
  
It is his fault. He is the reason Hugh is gone.  
  
Raffi holds his arm with the gentle worry of a mother, the kindness she hides behind her strange smoke-sticks and alcohol. Elnor is not worthy of it.  
  
He shows them to a hall that is only a dozen of the hundreds of empty rooms housed within the Artifact. He tells them to pick whichever room they prefer - the door will code itself accordingly for privacy.  
  
When he and Hugh had returned here, Hugh had asked him if he wanted his own room coded. Locked doors were not something done in the temple on Vashti. Closed doors, yes, but trust amongst the Qowat Milat meant knowing one would not enter without permission.  
  
"That will not be necessary," Elnor had said, then asked, "Do you lock your room?"  
  
"Not usually, no," Hugh had said, "I like the xBs to know they can come to me whenever they may need to. There are no doors on a Borg ship. Fewer barriers help for a smoother transition, let's them know they can still connect." Then he had smiled, small, but not without hope. "You are of course welcome to come to me, too. I know this place is very different, but I don't want you to feel ostracized. It is as much your home as you wish to make it."  
  
I trust you, Elnor had heard. You are welcome here.  
  
And Elnor ended up betraying that trust and overstaying his welcome.  
  
He untangles his arm from Raffi and puts distance between himself and the crew.  
  
"I am the furthest room at the start of the hall," he says to no one in particular and escapes before any of them have the chance to confront his behavior.  
  
He is not sure, if asked directly, he would be able to keep himself from speaking fully. Absolute Candor means to be honest, but Elnor wants to bury these truths in the deepest, darkest part of himself where they may never be found. The feelings he should have kept to himself, the resulting guilt that means to drown him. He does not want the others to find out.  
  
They would be so disappointed in him.  
  
The bed of Elnor's room is kempt as he has not slept, the mere thought of taking comfort a mocking one indeed. Hugh could be anywhere, in any condition. Elnor should be with _him_ , but instead he is _here_.  
  
All because Hugh's words had hurt. Elnor has been told hurtful things before, from friends and strangers alike. He should not have let what Hugh said affect him so. He knew that Hugh might not return his affections, he just had not anticipated Hugh wanting him as far away as possible for them.  
  
His heart still aches from it, the coldness by which Hugh dismissed him. Elnor had fled to the astrometrics lab where the stars of his old homeworld were not enough to balm his sorrow, then he had found a corner of the ship to hide in when Hugh was scheduled to disembark.  
  
He had not wanted to watch Hugh leave. He had wanted it obvious he was not there. It has been a petty show of vindictiveness that feels so small and pathetic now for one claiming to be a Qowat Milat warrior.  
  
Because if Elnor had been there, if he had swallowed his bruised passions and pride and stood by Hugh as he has sworn to do, then he would have been able to protect Hugh.  
  
Elnor has failed Hugh twice. The first time by Narissa's blade, and now this time by his own foolishness. It is no wonder that Hugh no longer wishes him as qualankhkai.  
  
Elnor drops to the floor in a clumsy meditative pose. It will not help, but there is nothing else to do. The _What Ifs_ of his mind are endless, hungry buzzards above his head: what if he had not attempted to pursue more with Hugh? What if he had not followed Hugh to the Gray Zone? What if he had gone with Hugh to Lalget? What if... what if... what if?  
  
It all comes back to Hugh would be safe. Either safe on Lalget, or safe on his way back to the Artifact.  
  
But he is not.  
  
The blame is Elnor's and his alone. He was _selfish_.  
  
The edges of his nails have cut into his palms from the strain of his clenched fists. Elnor feels the wet warmth of his blood as it pools and slowly flows between the spaces of his fingers.  
  
He should ask to go with them. He must atone for his mistakes. The crew would not likely refuse him from returning to the _La Sirena_ , but would they want him if his involvement came to light? Elnor cannot lie to them, but to tell Picard that his friend and Seven that her family is gone because Elnor could not remain true to his oath?  
  
Elnor's eyes find the mount where his sword lays. He can feel the weight of it though it is not in his hands, as familiar as the day it was given to him.  
  
A group of his sisters had graduated, formally recognized as Qowat Milat. Each tan qalanq was sheathed in the lustrous vines of moonshade - a flower whose petals when ingested were poisonous, but when ground down and used as an ointment cooled the most severe of fevers. It was to remind each sister that her sword was a tool, used to protect as it was to kill, and her's was the responsibility as qualankhkai to know in which way it would mold itself to her hand.  
  
Elnor had not been part of the ceremony, though by rights of skill and passage he would have been were he not male. He had been able to stand with his younger sisters - those not yet ready to vow themselves - and clapped and gave praise with the others of the temple as he was happy for his sisters, proud that their dedication was given name.  
  
After each sister had held her sword beneath Vashti's moon and spoke the rites that would guide their lives, a celebration was to follow. So rare such festivities were on Vashti with the cruelty of the summer sun and the barrenness of the land that the nuns invited even the surliest of Romulans to attend for the briefest of respites from their hard lives.  
  
Though not allowed to witness the ceremony, many had arrived for the food and music that came afterward, their mutterings of distrust for the Qowat Milat nuns as silent as the stars above.  
  
Zani had pulled him aside, just as the others were leaving the garden. Elnor remembers practicing his smile, ready to accept the empathy he had seen in her eyes the days leading up to that night.  
  
More than anything he had wanted to be with them, to have the braids woven into his hair, but he had known it was not to be.  
  
But what Zani had given him was not words of comfort. In the shadows of the trees where the firelight did not quiet reach, Zani had pulled a long bundle from her robes and offered it out to him.  
  
"Go on," she had said, a hint of mischief to her smile, and with shaking hands, Elnor had.  
  
Inside the cloth had been a tan qalanq, crafted just a finely as the ones bestowed to his sisters, with a plait of moonshade wrapped around the handle.  
  
Elnor had not been able to speak, and he had not been able to stop the tears. Zani had placed a hand on his neck and brought him close.  
  
"It is by the same tradition that bars you from joining your sisters that proves you have earned this," she had whispered to him, her voice undeniably proud. "What makes a Qowat Milat warrior is not a body nor a ceremony. It is this," she had tapped the top of his head, "and this," she pointed to his side, "and these," she rested her hand atop his own.  
  
"Remember this, Elnor," she had told him seriously, her own eyes wet, "your hope has shined bright enough to guide you to this moment. If you believe in it, it will not fail you. That is your strength."  
  
Elnor stands and picks up his sword, removing it from it's sheath. Like a mirror, the steel catches the light. He stares at himself in it for a long while.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
_It is quiet again._  
  
 _Dark._  
  
 _The press of the void. Enveloping and without end._  
  
 _But the void does not devour. It holds. This is not protection. But it is safe._  
  
 _Countless were held here. This place where one were many. Now there is nothing._  
  
 _Always nothing._  
  
 _The self is repaired here. But is never leaves whole._  
  
 _Always deficient._  
  
 _Always incomplete._  
  
 _So small the self is without the others. So lonely._  
  
 _But... there is something. Something separate from the void. From self._  
  
 _Silent. Brief. A nudge beneath the surface of the void._  
  
 _Then..._  
  
Hugh wakes up and immediately he is aware of two things: that he is upright, and that the reason he is upright is because he's standing in a Borg alcove.  
  
Panic is quick to rise, ruthless as it overtakes the lingering haze of unconsciousness. All he can see in front of him are the sharp geometric lines of unfamiliar Borg technology, all of it awash in green from the arching light above his head. His heart picks up in pace as he realizes this is not the Artifact. He knows the Artifact like the back of his hand, it's layout as intimate to him as though it were part of his body.   
  
It takes so little to know this isn't the Borg cube he has spent the last seven years of his life on. He doesn't know where he is, and it takes all of a few perilous seconds for him to throw himself from the alcove.  
  
He lands hard on his hands and knees, the grated floor digging into the soft flesh of his palms. The pain, if anything, gives him something tangible to focus on.  
  
The sudden disengagement from the energy the alcove was supplying leaves his head dizzy and legs unsteady as he gets up. He doesn't know what's going on. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what hap-  
  
Dorsey's message. Lalget. The cave. The drone. _Potek_.  
  
A heavy weight settles in Hugh's chest. Potek had been shot, and the last thing he remembers is the young Cardassian on the ground, unmoving, very likely dead. It wasn't by the drone girl, though. There had been someone else there.  
  
Hugh feels along the back of his neck and isn't surprised to find nothing. A hypospray wouldn't leave a detectable mark.  
  
The knowledge sobers the suffocating panic and Hugh uses the resulting calm to gather his wits with a few deep breaths. First thing first: assess himself.  
  
Aside from the fall, he isn't in any pain, which is promising, just a little stiff from standing in an alcove after many years of regenerating in a bed. Hugh flexes his fingers, his toes, and looks down his body. As far as he can tell, he is untouched. His uniform is wrinkled, dirty from his trek through the desert, but otherwise intact. He doesn't see nor feel anything that shouldn't be- arms and legs still attached, no open wounds or dried blood.  
  
Not entirely convinced, but with nothing standing out, Hugh considers himself unharmed. This leads to the standard set of questions to be had in a situation such as this: where is he, who has him, and why?  
  
Unfortunately, or fortunately, there is no one around to ask. Hugh is alone. With no idea how long he'll be left that way, Hugh takes the opportunity to look around.  
  
The area he's in is small with a handful of alcoves lining the wall, all empty. His cybernetic eye feeds him information that he can't discern from surface level observation - abnormal energy outputs, electromagnetic disruptions - but all he can tell is that everything _appears_ to be Borg.  
  
The logical conclusion is that he is on a Borg ship.  
  
But... it is different. It may only be obvious to him and other xBs, but the technology here looks modified. Devices missing from machines that he knows should be there, and usually unwieldy components now trim.  
  
He's tempted to pry panels open and get a closer look, his fingers twitching at the prospect, but that would entail touching things, and Hugh isn't willing to risk accidentally interfacing with something foreign.  
  
The fact that he's in a room isn't right. The only "rooms" Borg ships have are for nurseries and maturation chambers. Everything else is left open, divided into cells that aren't separated by walls. No one area on a Borg ship is any more important than the other, this is by design.  
  
The Artifact was refitted, the technology repurposed. Everything was altered with the idea of individuals in mind - living quarters, medical bays, and communal areas. While Hugh can only judge by this single room, he wouldn't say that it's been refitted like the Artifact, but it is strange.  
  
Still.  
  
Despite her behavior, the young drone girl from the cave had looked Borg enough. They had been waiting for him, she had said.  
  
Yet, Hugh can't picture the Collective stealing him away like thieves in the night. What would be the point? To them, Hugh is nothing more than a nuisance that was taken care of the moment the Borg retrieval ship was cut off from the rest of the Collective once individuality began to spread.  
  
It's highly possible he's been taken by scavengers. They've been known to utilize alcoves to better subdue their victims, forcing drones and ex-drones alike into their regeneration cycles to cut them open and take what they like without resistance. It's a monstrous assault, and Hugh's only ever seen the terrible aftermath in the bodies recovered and the loved ones left to mourn.  
  
But that doesn't seem right either. There's no evidence he's been brutalized or tampered with. He wasn't restrained. There was no force field holding him in place. The only thing keeping him to the alcove was muscle memory from an existence he's long removed himself from. If it was scavengers, Hugh can't think of any scenario where he would be left unharmed, much less free to move around of his own will.  
  
Hugh should be relieved, but he isn't. If he wasn't abducted to be cut up for parts, who else could possibly want him?  
  
This has to be some kind of trap, but he can't begin to fathom what the purpose would be. Executive Director of the Borg Reclamation Project sounds fancy and important, but it's a title that doesn't get him as far as one might think when working under the Romulan government's generosity. Hugh's connections are tenuous at best, his relationship with Starfleet luke-warm, and his standing as a Federation citizen doesn't differentiate him from the trillion other Federation citizens.  
  
To anyone aside from the xBs, Hugh would literally be worth more being sold piece by piece on a black market.  
  
Hugh's always been very careful to avoid stepping on any toes, often to his own detriment, so revenge doesn't seem likely. Anti-Borg fanatics could be a possibility, and Hugh has often been used as the face of ex-Borg acceptance, but again, he's completely unscathed and left to his own devices, and furthermore, it doesn't explain that girl or this place.  
  
What Hugh needs is information and he isn't going to get it standing here thinking himself in circles.  
  
With nothing forthcoming from the room, his eyes slide towards the burnished-black metal of the only door present. It's not as if he has anything else to go off of, and if no one is going to come to him, he'll have to go find them.  
  
With some hesitation, Hugh goes up to the door. He doesn't see any kind of touchpad or scanner, but it doesn't matter- as soon as Hugh gets close enough, the door opens.  
  
He jumps at the ease in which it opens. Thankfully, the embarrassment fades quickly enough. After all, it's a door. What did he expect it to do?  
  
The door leads out into an empty hall. No alarms go off and no one springs up to grab him. So far so good.  
  
Hugh steps into the hall and faces the decision to go left or right. If this were a typical Borg ship, he'd know where to go. As it stands, the unusual composition is off-putting, and while Hugh's plan more or less amounts to "find someone, try not to get shot" he'd feel much better knowing his way around.  
  
Either direction looks the same. Hugh picks right, then stops.  
  
No. He needs to go left.  
  
It's eerily still as Hugh walks, a discomforting silence his only companion. Even on a regular Borg vessel there is activity. Drones working their assigned places in the synchronized pattern of the Collective, mechanisms running like orchestrated music.  
  
Here there is nothing. Empty when it shouldn't be.  
  
He passes a few other doors along the hall, but doesn't try them. He's going the right way, he's sure of it.  
  
Finally he makes it to a door and his feet slow to a stop. He isn't sure why. This door is as uniform as all the others, nothing special about it, but Hugh moves forward and it opens.  
  
Well, he's found someone. A few someones, in fact.  
  
Before him within the room, blanketed in emerald-gray light, are four Borg drones.  
  
Their eyes are on him. Alert. Waiting. One of them sits on a console. One leans against a wall. Two stand. They do not have the blank faces of the hive-mind as they observe him.  
  
Hugh's breath comes short. A shiver works its way down his body. This feels like fear, and also something else.  
  
Before Hugh can speak, one of the two who stand steps forward - a Bajoran man. The trim lines of his exo-plating lend him a subdued power, his movements precise and controlled. He doesn't have an optical device, but he gets close enough to Hugh for the light to hit his face just so, and then Hugh is looking up into the oil-black eyes of a Borg Queen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if Hugh doesn't think he's especially important, there are plenty of others who do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This train may be slow, but it's still trudging along.
> 
> So I'm going to be getting into Borg stuff. Now, I know the Borg were heavily explored in Voyager, but I'm going to be honest with you all and tell you I don't really like Voyager. It's a show that had it's moments, and it did give us Seven of Nine, but all in all I felt it never really lived up to it's potential. That being said, there may be times where I write in Borg science/lore that contradicts something established in Voyager simply due to me not having seen it. I try to build off what's already in Star Trek, and anything I don't remember I check against Memory Alpha.
> 
> Also, I am utilizing the title of Borg Queen as term not equating to gender. I.E. a "Queen" it what the Collective calls the unit that is currently in control of the Borg (or at least whatever word the Collective uses to denote it's leader, "Queen" is the closest approximation that the Universal Translator can give.)
> 
> I continue to thank you all for the kudos and comments. They really give me encouragement when my indignation over ST:Picard cools.
> 
> All mistakes, grammar and otherwise, are mine. I should probably get a beta, but I wouldn't wish that torture on anyone.

Third of Five had never met the Borg Queen. There would have been no reason for him to. He had been only one of billions, just as useful as the drones before him and the drones that would come after. The Queen is merely a guiding voice appointed by the Collective when it is needed, but the omnipresence of her was always there, laced thoroughly throughout the link to all Borg.  
  
Hugh isn't sure if what he feels can be classified as simply as fear, but the dark sheen of that gaze, so familiar though never known, makes him feel like a small, insignificant scout drone again.  
  
Yet, the face of this Borg... _something_ looks at Hugh with tender characters of awe, where the depths of his black eyes aren't so cold.  
  
Hugh stands frozen, his limbs numb. He wants to say something, to demand answers for whatever is going on, but he's captured within those black eyes, by this Borg who by all evidence is modeled to be a Queen.  
  
He's almost too rooted in place to look away, disoriented, bound by the shock and the fear wrapped tightly around him. But his need to know, to understand, claws deep from within and forces his eyes away to the others in the room.  
  
The second one nearest turns his head in tandem with Hugh, the movement revealing the implants woven through the left side of his face like filigree, braiding and merging into a solid cranial plate that appears to continue around the back of his head but leaves the right side of his face nearly untouched. There, Hugh sees the delicate sweep of his brow and noble point of his ear the identifies him as a Vulcan. Seven years among Romulans has taught Hugh to discern the subtle differences between the two.  
  
However, beneath the Vulcan heritage, his one visible eye is also steeped in black and glittering silver. It regards Hugh thoughtfully.  
  
The one against the wall is still, statuesque. Her arms are crossed, poised dispassionately, but something hard underlines her expression. Black coils wrap loosely around her shoulders, tightening the higher they go around her neck and disappear underneath the skin at the base of her head. Seamlessly her exo-plating integrates along her form, her features humanoid. Hugh cannot tell what race she may have come from.  
  
As with the two before her, her eyes are the metallic gray of a Queen.  
  
The final one is familiar in that Hugh has seen her before. Sitting on the console is the young drone girl from the cave. She is slender in her adolescence, looking so much younger in the better light of the ship, her implants fewer and less invasive. Were she a patient on the Artifact, Hugh is certain she would be one of the lucky few to finish all cosmetic procedures with nothing outwardly Borg left behind.  
  
When Hugh's attention turns to her, the young girl smiles brightly. She hops down with unexpected grace, her footsteps as light as a dancer's, and practically bounces up to him. It's no longer as surprising, only disconcerting, as she gets close enough for Hugh to see the dark reflections of the Collective in her eye.  
  
It doesn't make sense. There is only ever one Queen. If the body is damaged, it will be reabsorbed and a new body produced. If it is destroyed, another will be chosen to take it's place. If it's function is served, it is returned to the many.  
  
There is one, or there is none. But before Hugh stand four.  
  
They are, all of them, terrifying and beautiful.  
  
The girl's eye shines with irrefutable delight as she looks him up and down, her shoulders shaking with an animated energy she can't seem to contain. Hugh doesn't know what to do or say as she looks up at him in anticipation, a few inches shorter than his own slight height.  
  
He takes too long in his indecision it seems, because the young girl darts forward and wraps her thin arms around his waist.  
  
She's... she's hugging him. Hugh's arms hover awkwardly in the air as she buries her face into his chest and squeezes. Nothing painful or desperate about it, just the enthusiasm of a child's embrace.  
  
What- what is going on?  
  
"Cybele," the Bajoran man admonishes her gently. "You know you are to give him space. He has just come out of regeneration."  
  
Cybele.  
  
This young drone has a name. Where there are names, there is individuality. These Borg recognize themselves as individuals, and if that is so, they must not be connected to the Collective.  
  
There is the smallest of shifts, a wordless refusal from the girl as Hugh is not released. The man shakes his head with the fondness of one accustomed to the actions of another. "You must forgive her," he says to Hugh. "You were regenerating for an unanticipated amount of time. She was worried." His expression is warm until his dark gaze catches something and he frowns.  
  
"You are hurt."  
  
Hugh doesn't have time to respond, not that he's done much talking. The girl, Cybele, pulls back abruptly, her one eye large and searching. With snake-like precision, the man takes Hugh's left hand from the air and inspects it. A thin line of blood wells up near the base of Hugh's thumb, bright red against the pale of his skin. The grated floor must have cut into his palm when he fell from the alcove.  
  
"How?" The man asks quietly. Touch doesn't come instinctively to the Borg, but Hugh's hand is held so naturally, entirely lacking the clinical disposition he's come to expect. The silvery implant that traces the upper socket of the man's left eye glints as his brow draws downward in concern. It's uncanny, seeing a Borg face with such an expression, and the man turns towards the others. "Did this happen on the planet?"  
  
"We did not allow any harm to come to him when removed from Rnn'Vel II," the Vulcan states placidly. "Aside from the Cardassian, there were no unforeseen accidents."  
  
The callousness in the way it's said brings an image of Potek's body laying forgotten in an impromptu crypt of red stone and sand, sudden and powerful enough to snap Hugh out of his unresponsive daze. He rips his hand away and takes a full step back.  
  
"What happened to that young man wasn't an _accident_." Potek was shot. They shot him, and the guilt subdues Hugh's voice because it was all due to his impatience. He shouldn't have let his anger get the better of him. He's used to losing Starfleet's little games and he should have just waited for the appointee, but he didn't, and now Potek is dead. "He was shot deliberately, just as I was kidnapped. Those aren't acts that happen by chance."  
  
"Please do not be angry with us," the Bajoran's eyes linger on Hugh's hand. "We had wanted to meet you peacefully, but the Cardassain drew his weapon."  
  
"He was a guard," Hugh defends even though they might not understand.  
  
"And what was he guarding you against?" comes the woman. She moves off the wall and stands with the group next to the Vulcan. "Us? No one had threatened him. No one had threatened you. He had no reason to raise a weapon."  
  
"He saw-" Hugh looks to Cybele. In the cave, she had moved to grab something behind her...  
  
Cybele's expression falls as she casts her gaze to the floor. Even the ruby red of her eye-piece is not so piercing. "I am sorry," she says quietly and picks up a small object from a nearby stand. She shows it to him, and in her delicate hand is a personal receiver. "I was supposed to contact the ship when you arrived."  
  
Hugh sobers at the realization, stomach feeling heavy. "He... he wouldn't have known. He was afraid and he- he misinterpreted the action as dangerous. He may have acted impulsively, but he didn't need to be killed for it."  
  
"Had he shot Cybele, would his fear have been his justification?" The woman speaks up, a challenge in the sharp features of her face. "Is being Borg a crime punishable by death? We did nothing to provoke him, and you stand there accusing us for defending ourselves. Perhaps he didn't have to die, but why should we be asked to show such mercy when it would not be shown to us?"  
  
Her words prove advanced cognition that isn't present in those recently separated from the Collective, but what catches Hugh off-guard is how deeply she strikes with ugly truths.  
  
He's heard them before, standing before Starfleet, asking why an abandoned Borg ship had been destroyed when there were lifesigns aboard ("We couldn't risk the chance, Director. In instances such as these, it must be either us or them."). He's heard them when asking the Federation Council to consider allowing the newly reclaimed to settle planetside ("You know that no governing body of any world would ever allow Borg inhabitants. Them being connected to the Collective or not won't matter to the people.").  
  
He's heard them when demanding disciplinary action against an engineer for assaulting an xB, leaving her with a broken arm and a fear of everyone around her, only to have the Romulan law pardon him ("He mistook her behavior as aggression - a common mistake anyone could make while under the stress of working on a Borg cube, surrounded by Borg drones, don't you think, Director? We don't have the leisure of replacing workers over simple misunderstandings.").  
  
How many times has he bowed his head, gritted out a polite Of course, and walked away, furious?  
  
The indignation over Potek's death seeps out of him, no matter how hard Hugh tries to hold onto it. He's lost his footing, his own arguments thrown back in his face.  
  
"Enough," says the Bajoran, angling himself between the woman and Hugh. "He has a right to be upset." The two stare at each other, faces shadowed under ambient green light, until the woman turns away.  
  
When the man looks back to Hugh, it's with regret. "I am sorry for what happened. It was unfortunate and not what we intended."  
  
"And abducting me was?" Hugh finds his voice again, as deflated as it may be.  
  
"That error in judgment was mine," says the Vulcan. "The anesthetic was for those who would have come with you- we do not trust outsiders. However, once the situation deteriorated I thought it best to remove you quickly. Our objective was only to introduce ourselves, to speak with you."  
  
Hugh frowns, the obvious sliding into place. "You predicted that I would be the one to respond to a crashed Borg ship, so you devised a plan to get me here. You manipulated the scanners around Rnn'Vel II, creating false data that would show a crash far enough away from the colony that no one could visually confirm it."  
  
The Vulcan validates Hugh's conclusion with a modest nod of the head, the prism of his eye-piece glimmering an array of colors.  
  
"That is an especially intricate plan for just wanting to 'talk'."  
  
The lift of an eyebrow meets Hugh's insinuation. "We did not and do not want to risk our being discovered. You must have devised by now that we are not simple Borg drones. How do you think your Federation would have responded to a more direct attempt at communication, discovering what we are?"  
  
As much as he hates to admit it, their logic is difficult to refute. Any incoming or out going transmissions are dissected under the prying eyes of the Romulan Free State and Starfleet, Hugh's own in particular. His eyes flick over each of them, landing on Cybele. She looks back at him anxiously, as if she's done something wrong.  
  
In the precariousness of a moment, Hugh doesn't see a Borg Queen but a girl just barely into her teenage years, no different than the hundreds of xBs he's worked with, emotions brand-new and overwhelming, and it's second nature for him to want to reach out and protect.  
  
If they had attempted to contact him, it's likely Hugh would have never known. Any message would have been intercepted. They would have been found and, if they weren't killed, they would have been examined and imprisoned to some solitary corner of space. Just like those on the Artifact.  
  
Dorsey's sneer flashes across his vision and Hugh instinctively curls his hands into fists.  
  
Just like him.  
  
The pressure of his nails agitates the hair-line cuts along his palm. A pair of hands gently wrap around his own, cradling it with the care of holding a bird with a broken wing, and the Bajoran is in front of him again. The gentleness startles Hugh into finally asking, "Who are you?"  
  
He smiles like Hugh has asked something extraordinary, and Hugh has to tamp down the habitual urge to duck under such appraisal.  
  
"We are like you," the man says proudly. "We understand ourselves as individuals. We have names." He motions one hand towards the Vulcan, "He is V'Nam," then to the woman, "She is Ase-caj," and then he places the hand on Cybele's shoulder, "this, as you have heard, is Cybele."  
  
"And I," he continues, gaze returning to Hugh, "am Lazarus. It is an honor to meet you, Hugh."  
  
The words sound weighted with something, a grandeur Hugh doesn't know how to respond to. "Well, it's..." he tries for diplomatic, "good... to meet you all, too," and finishes lamely.  
  
Lazarus, as he calls himself, tilts his head at that, letting out an airy chuckle and a glimpse of teeth. It's strangely charming. "You do not understand," he says amusedly. "But I suppose you would not know. For you to be here among us... it is beyond description. You see," Lazarus brings his other hand to again rest over Hugh's injured one. "You are the reason we exist."  
  
Hugh stares back in bewilderment. "You're right," he says after a moment, not expecting that in the least. "I don't understand."  
  
"Thirty-one standard years ago," Lazarus begins, "you were found by the USS _Enterprise_ , registry identification NCC-1701-D, Galaxy-class. During your time aboard, separated from the Collective, you regained your individuality. However, you were eventually returned to the Borg."  
  
Hugh nods. This information isn't secret. His life story and the involvement of the Enterprise and her crew is available to anyone with the ability to do a simple search on the net. "I chose to go back voluntarily."  
  
"A selfless action," Lazarus commends. "But when you were collected, your new-found individuality was not erased, it was dispersed, spreading throughout the ship that came for you. In order to prevent further escalation, the Collective separated you and the drones affected from itself. The problem was dealt with, but not forgotten. What happened to you intrigued the Collective- a drone with a sense of self. And, after many years, the Collective decided to study the merits of introducing individuality to the Borg."  
  
With some reluctance, Lazarus allows Hugh's hand to slide from his own. He then holds his arms out, encompassing the group. "We are the products of that experimentation."  
  
"I don't believe you," Hugh says candidly, because what's being said can't be true. Individualism begets chaos, it is the antithesis of the perfection the Collective strives to achieve.  
  
"It's true!" Cybele exclaims, and a frown pulls at her cherubic face. "Only we... did not turn out how they wanted."  
  
"We were devised as being adjacent to the Borg Queen," V'Nam adds. "Our exo-plating was improved, our implants and prosthesis refined. We are the most advanced design the Collective has ever constructed. But when we were activated and our programing allowed to run outside of simulations, it took zero-point-zero-zero-two-thirds of a nanosecond for the Collective to decide we would be too unpredictable. Their experimentation with individuality calculated to be a failure."  
  
"We were to be destroyed." Where V'Nam conducts himself with the detachment of stating fact, the anger from Ase-caj is clear. "We would have been taken apart and recycled back into the Collective. But they created us to be better," Hugh could almost mistake the lilt in her tone for arrogance, but he can see the tense lines of her body under the slim plates of her suit. "With the resources of the Collective and the recognition of self, we were able to escape."  
  
It's almost too incredible. Hugh's never encountered anything like this before. He supposes the Collective could attempt to utilize certain stages of individuality. It's been done sparingly in the past. Locutus had been created to be a representative. Annika had been modified to work with the crew of _Voyager_. The Queen itself designed to separate from the hive-mind.  
  
Despite the lingering doubt, Hugh doesn't think he's being lied to. "How long have you been out here?"  
  
"We have spent four-point-one-six standard years traveling from Borg space," Lazarus answers with a trace of weariness. "It has been... trying. We must avoid the Borg because of what we are, and we must avoid all others because we are Borg."  
  
"Is that why you sought me out? You need asylum?" Hugh can hear Annika accusing him of being a bleeding heart.  
  
Ase-caj makes an unkind sound. "What asylum could you offer? A Starfleet-Romulan controlled cube in Romulan-controlled space?"  
  
It's tempting to be indignant if it weren't frustratingly true. They would never make it past the first security check-point, and Hugh can't exactly sneak them into the Artifact in his travel bag.  
  
"What Ase-caj means," mediates Lazarus, "it that you are kind to offer, but you understand why that would be infeasible."  
  
"Then why go through so much to get to me?" Hugh asks, crossing his arms. "What purpose does meeting me serve?"  
  
A shadow of confusion crosses Lazarus' face and he turns his head in question. "Entire sectors of space, millions of species, trillions of individuals, all assimilated into the Collective without fail, and then there was you. A most magnificent aberration who could not be re-assimilated. You were the genesis of what all knew to be impossible, living proof that the Borg were not unstoppable, and that what was taken could be restored. You challenged their perfection. Why would we not want to meet you?"  
  
This time Hugh's face does heat up. Hopefully the green of the lights negate it. He's reminded of Annika's first visit to the Artifact and the awe-stuck buzz of _it's Seven of Nine!_ that followed her from cell to cell.  
  
"That-" Hugh clears his throat. "My circumstances were very particular. It could have easily been any other drone." He had very little agency, at least in the beginning. All he'd wanted was to return to the Collective.  
  
"Perhaps," Lazarus concedes, sounding less like he agrees and more like he's trying to be polite, "But it was not any other drone. It was you."  
  
Often times Hugh's found himself as the center of attention. He doesn't really like it, but as an early example of successful Borg reclamation he's had to get used to it. Sometimes that's speaking at a renowned intergalactic conference, other times it's stripped down to his skin under the curious scrutiny of the quadrant's finest medical minds. Yet, out of all of it, this feels different. Personal.  
  
Intimate.  
  
"We want to know you," Lazarus says, eyes glittering, "and we want you to know us. You can learn from us, study us. Ask us anything you desire and we will answer. All we request in return is your time."  
  
"I'm not sure what you're asking me."  
  
"Stay with us!" Cybele grasps the ends of Hugh's sleeves. "You can see how we have adapted to life outside of the Collective. We are different from other Borg. We can teach you and you can teach us!"  
  
The refusal is ready on his lips. Hugh can't possibly stay. As far as anyone is concerned, he defied orders and broke out of a Cardassian colony. When they find Potek's body, if they haven't already, and assuming they don't believe Hugh was the one to do it, it will become very clear that he's been abducted. It's a situation that will only get worse the longer he's gone.  
  
Yet, the thought of leaving pulls tight in his chest, strummed by a low voice that whispers _abandoner_ through clenched teeth. These four may not have the innocence nor the inexperience of the newly reclaimed, but they sought him out. They need him.  
  
His doubt must show. The joyful expression from a moment ago fades from Cybele's face and she moves back, head down. Hugh shouldn't feel guilty.  
  
"Do not worry yourself," Lazarus' own smile is thin. He places a comforting hand atop Cybele's head. "We have placed you in a difficult position. We know you are responsible for tens of thousands of others, and all we have done is deceive you into coming here." He pauses, searching for words in the way that xBs do when relearning the significance of spoken language. "We cannot return to the Collective, and we have no place within the galaxy. We are lost."  
  
Lazarus looks to Hugh again, locking him in eyes that go on and on. In that infinite darkness, Hugh recalls his earliest connection to another, an understanding born of loneliness between one becoming an individual and one who had been an individual for a very, very long time.  
  
_You have no others. You have no home._  
  
And, before he realizes what he's doing, Hugh says, "Forty-eight hours."  
  
Oh, bleeding heart indeed. The fires he will have to put out are going to be unimaginable. "Forty-eight hours," Hugh repeats mostly for himself. "That's all I can spare before my disappearance becomes- well, before it becomes problematic to say the least."  
  
With a lively squeal, Cybele bounces forward and takes his hands into her own, her despondence gone. "This is wonderful! We have heard about you for so long and now you are here! You will not be disappointed in us! Would you like to see the ship? Or do you require additional rest? But you were regenerating for a very long time. Oh! Maybe-"  
  
"Cybele," Lazarus says, but any exasperation that might have been is entirely lost in his visible happiness. V'Nam remains as stoic as any Vulcan, but there is an air of relaxation around him. Ase-caj doesn't look happy or unhappy, but it wouldn't take more than an educated guess to know Hugh's presence here isn't something she appears to particularity want.  
  
"Thank you," Lazarus says to him, and the tightness within Hugh unravels with the warmth of satisfaction.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Elnor stands in front of Captain Rios' room. His travel pack is on the floor at his feet, and his sword is on his back. It feels heavier than it should.  
  
It is so very tempting to return to his room. To hide from his disgrace. Hugh does not want him, and the others may decide they do not want him either. But Elnor had earned his place aboard the _La Sirena_ once, and he will do so again if he must.  
  
And Hugh. Elnor has vowed himself to Hugh in blood spilt and words spoken, it's sanctity that which gives strength to his sword-arm. When they find him, if Hugh still demands Elnor gone, then Elnor will leave, but not before Hugh is returned.  
  
It would break him, but loosing Hugh would do worse.  
  
Rios steps out of his room with his face in a book, engrossed in what appears to be the last few pages. He glances up and startles at Elnor's presence.  
  
" _Jesus_ ," he hisses and rapidly touches his forehead with his book, then brings it down to his center, then from his left shoulder to his right. It is an unusual gesture that Elnor does not recognize, but it gives Rios ease. "Forgot how damn quiet you are. Gonna need to get you a bell."  
  
"I did not mean to scare you, Captain Rios."  
  
"Hey, hey, you didn't _scare_ me," Rios mumbles, "You surprised me. Is all." He coughs loudly into the hand not holding the book. "Anyway, is there a reason you're lurking outside my room like a member of the Obsidian Order instead of knocking?"  
  
Elnor's hair falls around his shoulders as he bows. "I have come to ask you if I may once again join the crew of the _La Sirena_. I know you mean to depart soon, but I am prepared to leave," he works around the uncertainty that constricts his throat, "If I am permitted to accompany you on the search for Hugh, that is."  
  
Please. He must be allowed to journey with them.  
  
Elnor's eyes are fixated on the smooth metal of the floor, so he cannot see Rios' expression, but he can hear the bafflement in his voice. "Of course you're coming, kid. Hell, I'm amazed you're not in whatever trouble he's in with him. You're usually glued to his side. I've seen Trills and their symbionts spend more time apart."  
  
Rios says this with obvious levity, so Elnor knows he does not mean to hurt with what he says, but the truth of it pains Elnor nonetheless. He should be with Hugh and he is not, and he cannot keep his disgrace from showing.  
  
"Whoa, hey," Rios speaks lowly, brows furrowed, "I didn't mean anything by it." With some hesitation, Rios grabs his shoulder. Although he and the captain are not close, the reassurance of his grip is welcome. "I'm sure Hugh's alri- well, he's probably, uh...." Elnor watches Rios struggle to give comfort when he cannot make such promises.  
  
Rios sighs. "Look, I can't say what shape he's in- we don't even know what really happened. But people don't usually take the time to grab someone from right under the noses of Cardassians if their intention is to kill them."  
  
"Thank you," Elnor says and hopes with all that he is that Hugh is alive and well. Any other possibility dwells in a shadowed place within his heart.  
  
Rios releases him and motions with his head. "Come on, I'm gonna make the rounds."  
  
Elnor follows Rios as he goes from room to room, letting the crew know that they are to leave soon. It is done quickly, the others happy to see Elnor will be going with them. Elnor tries to meet their high spirits, but he cannot, and remains silent at Rios' back.  
  
All of them notice, but it is Picard and Seven whose eyes tell of conversations that will be had once settled on the ship. Their disappointment will be difficult to endure, but it will be a resentment Elnor has justly earned. He wonders how long he would be able to hide before they realize he is hiding. If he lets himself be seen occasionally, perhaps he can make himself scarce until they reach Rnn'Vel II.  
  
However, when he and Rios make their way to the docking bay, waiting under the cover of the _La Sirena_ , it is the captain who asks, "Are you alright, kid? And I don't mean about the obvious," he rakes his fingers through the hair on his cheek. "Did something, you know, happen?"  
  
The truth is caged by the bones in his chest. As cowardly as it feels, Elnor averts his eyes. "I... would rather not say."  
  
"Trouble in paradise, huh?" Rios quirks his lips into a smile, the one he uses when he wishes to lessen the troubles of others.  
  
"I am troubled, yes," Elnor confesses, "But I swear I will not endanger the mission. More than anything, my desire and focus is to find Hugh."  
  
"I know, kid," Rios says, though Elnor does not think he does. "I know."  
  
They continue to wait in compatible silence, the _whirs_ of platform lifts and docking clamps echoing throughout the bay. In a handful of minutes, the others arrive. Seven and Raffi together, then Picard. Dr. Jurati is nowhere in sight.  
  
Rios frowns, and Seven crosses her arms, irritated. It is possible Dr. Jurati might have gotten lost coming from her room. It had taken many days for Elnor to learn his way around the Artifact, awed at how confidently the xBs navigated themselves within such a maze.  
  
"For xBs there is an... innate knowledge of where everything is," Hugh had told him, assuaging Elnor of his frustrations at winding up in the wrong cell for the fifth time. "All Borg cubes have the same architecture. They might be large and complicated looking, but in reality are very efficient, and efficiency often means simple. There's actually a pattern to it, but I can set up a positioning system on your data-pad. Most non-Borg personnel use one."  
  
"No," Elnor had said stubbornly, "I am qalankhaki to you and refuse to be ignorant in your ways. I would like to know the Artifact as you and the other xBs do. Will you teach me the pattern?"  
  
And then Hugh had smiled something both pleased and curiously self-conscious, it becoming one of Elnor's favorite smiles of Hugh's, and Hugh had said, "Of course I will."  
  
Elnor smiles before remembering that the last time he and Hugh had spoken, Hugh had not wanted him on the Artifact, much less learning it. It tints his memories in gray and leaves them as cold as the barren deserts of Vashti at night. He is about to offer to go find Jurati, if only to distract himself from his own mind, but his ears perk up at the sound of her voice.  
  
She walks in-time with a long-haired Andorian from the Cybernetics sector as noted by the insignia upon her gradient badge. They speak to one another rapidly, lost in their conversation as Eva shepherds them to the _La Sirena_.  
  
"So you've found a way to use the existing tri-fiber connections when bridging a prosthetic?" Jurati's fingers fly across her data-pad. "How do you prevent the nanoprobes from impairing the surrounding muscle tissue? Every study I've ever read--"  
  
"Oh! That's a problem we worked out about ten months ago," the Andorian says, pointing to something on the pad. "We had to think of it like an immune system attacking itself. You see, if we introduce--"  
  
"Dr. Jurati," Eva cuts in, and Jurati and the Andorian, faces inches apart, look up from the data-pad, finally noticing their surroundings.  
  
The Andorian's antennae stand on end in embarrassment, but Jurati smiles at them, face pink with enthusiasm. "Sorry everyone! I really wanted to get some quick notes on the cybernetics work being done here before we left." She turns and shakes the Andorian's hand vigorously. "Thank you so much, Dr. Haash zh'Ranhan! You have my contact information. I'm dying to know--"  
  
"Agnes, girl," Raffi stops Jurati before she looses herself again. "I know you're having fun in Robot-land, but we gotta go." Behind Raffi, Seven watches Jurati with whetted steel. If one could kill with a look alone, Seven might be the one to do it.  
  
While Elnor is not angry with Jurati, he can understand Seven's ire. Time is of the essence. The longer they wait, the further away Hugh is.  
  
"Right, sorry," Jurati gives a parting wave to Dr. Haash zh'Ranhan and moves over to the rest of the crew, wisely on the opposite end of Seven. Dr. Haash zh'Ranhan departs with her face a dark blue and then it is just them and Eva.  
  
"Good luck," Eva says to them, emotion in her voice relaying what she cannot speak aloud.  
  
"We won't be away long," Rios assures. The ramp of the _La Sirena_ descends and Elnor sees Eva, his friend and teacher, alone with the burden of a terrible responsibility. As the crew proceeds into the ship, Elnor falters.  
  
"Take a couple minutes," Rios says, closer than Elnor thought he was. "The old girl needs to warm up anyway." He jogs up the ramp, leaving Elnor and Eva. It is not privacy, exactly, but it will have to do.  
  
"I am sorry to leave you," Elnor says to her quietly. "You should not have to keep such a secret alone. I feel as though I am abandoning you."  
  
Eva shakes her head. "How could you remaining here better serve than what you can do out there? It wouldn't have made sense if you chose to stay. I will run the Artifact and you... you will find Hugh." A small glint of playfulness lights her eyes. "After all, you're his Shadow, and a shadow is never far from that which casts it."  
  
Whatever it is that Elnor has used to entomb his truths cracks as swiftly as it is deep, and he feels the hot sting of tears at his eyes. "Eva," his words tremble and he tries to keep them quiet. They cannot allow the knowledge of what has happened to spread. "I... it is my fault. Hugh, Hugh was upset with me. If I had not... if I had not pursued where I was not wanted then maybe he- maybe he--"  
  
Eva leans forward and holds him. She is shorter than he, but her embrace is full. Elnor must bar himself from collapsing into it. "Stop," she whispers to him firmly. "I know him, Elnor, and I know you," she pulls back, looking sculpted as finespun glass, but utterly unbreakable.  
  
"He cares about you," she says, and Elnor knows that, he does, even as his anguish consumes him, but he had wanted more from Hugh when it was not his place to ask. Eva had not seen Hugh in the Gray Zone. She had not seen the fear when Elnor tried to touch him.  
  
"Elnor." Eva's cool hands cup his face, her thumb catching a tear. "Whatever happened, if there is any fault, it's Hugh's."  
  
Elnor makes to protest, but Eva shushes him. "No. I can say that, because I know he would say it too. If he could see how upset you are, he would be beside himself." She sniffs, and through his own unshed grief, Elnor sees her eyes too are wet, crystalline sorrow clinging to sparse lashes.  
  
Elnor wishes he could help her, that he might console her pain as she consoles his. All he can do is take her face with gentle hands and kiss her forehead as he would with any of his sisters when parting ways.  
  
"I am sword-bound, yet I let him go alone." Whether Eva feels Hugh shares in blame or not, it was Elnor who neglected his duty afterward. He was not there to protect Hugh, a truth undeniable. "I hope you can forgive me."  
  
Eva smooths over the bunching of his robes. It reminds him of his older sister Sevuk, always fussing over his clothing and pulling twigs from his hair. "I can't forgive you for something I don't blame you for," Eva says and pushes him lightly. "Now go. Your crew is waiting."  
  
At the top of the ramp, Rios hovers, trying to look as if he is not paying attention to them, eyes intent on the nails of his fingers. Elnor nods to him, and Rios gives a "thumbs-up"- a human gesture Jurati had explained to Elnor - before returning back into the ship. Elnor moves to follow, but Eva grabs his arm.  
  
"This may sound selfish of me, Elnor, but I'm asking you to not give up on what you feel," she says quickly, "When you see Hugh, tell him. In a universe of half-truths and distrust, he has only ever wanted honesty. I think he could really use your candor."  
  
Eva does not wait for Elnor to respond. She straightens herself, her worry hidden by a welcoming smile while the spots along her temples and brow lessen the redness of her eyes, and she walks away, swallowed by the people and the machinery of the Artifact.  
  
His sword is still so heavy, matched only by the weight of his heart. But Elnor is strong. He will carry it.  
  
He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I have no idea if Rios is religious. I just found the image of Elnor scaring that crap out of Rios and Rios crossing himself too funny not to write.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew tries to get some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that this fic is something of an emotional response to ST:Picard where I want to dig into connections and spend more time with other characters and refence things that could maybe be utilized instead of purely for nostalgias sake and I swear this is a Hugh/Elnor story guys.
> 
> I accept full responsibility for any mistakes.
> 
> As usual, I appreciate all feedback given- it helps make writing fun and engaging.

Solitude is the only companion Elnor welcomes as the _La Sirena_ traverses the stars to Rnn'Vel II. He meditates, protected by the walls of his room, but as with before, his mind and heart find no peace. Twice the chime of his door breaks the silence, but Elnor does not answer. The crew is good enough to leave him to his turmoil.  
  
He worries for what they will find at Lalget, if they find anything at all.  
  
Warp eight. Rios had promised haste, but still time passes slowly.   
  
Hunched over folded legs, Elnor stares unblinking at the floor. He tries to recite the old mantras of the Qowat Milat, the songs through which the stories of the First Sisters are told, but the words are half-formed and clumsy. These stories were branded onto his heart by the flames of the fires they were spoken over, but they may as well be in another language. All of it comes back to Hugh.  
  
Suddenly there is a third chime at his door, shattering the illusion of peace Elnor has forced himself into. With a heavy breath, Elnor closes his eyes, turning a deaf ear to the call as he did with the others. This, however, is not a guest he is allowed to ignore, for the code to his door is overridden with a high series of beeps, and then there is Rios.  
  
The captain says nothing and leans an arm against the door frame, content to stare down at Elnor for however long it takes Elnor to acknowledge him. Elnor scowls at this invasion of his privacy, but Rios waits without care.  
  
"I did not say you could enter," Elnor grits out, and Rios, with quirked lips, shrugs.  
  
"Like my dad used to say; my ship, my rules."  
  
"I do not wish to talk," Elnor tells him sharply, anger taking form from the excess of his grief. All he wants it to be left alone and he cannot even be given that.  
  
"Good, me neither," Rios says, unbothered. "Just thought you'd like to know we're about ten minutes from Lalget."  
  
Although Rios does not sound upset by Elnor's disrespect, Elnor's face grows hot with shame. "I apologize, Captain Rios," he says quietly. Rios granted him permission to re-join the _La Sirena_ and he does not deserve Elnor's frustration. "Thank you for telling me."  
  
Rios gives a cursory nod, but remains where he stands. "No one is going to force you to open up, kid," he pauses, considering. "Well, Raffi might try, so no promises there. If she comes at you with a plate of chocolate cake, head in the opposite direction." Elnor does not smile at Rios' attempt at levity.  
  
There is a moment where Rios looks as if he might leave, but after some debate within himself, stays. "You don't want to let this stuff bottle up," he finally says. "It won't seem so bad at first, but this kind of stuff grows, and it'll get bigger. So big, in fact, it'll start to eat away at you from the inside, just so it can fit."  
  
Rios' mouth goes tight. "By then you might try to do something about it. Might try to drown it in alcohol. Might try to ignore it and hope it gets better. But that won't stop it. It'll keep growing until all that's left of you is the part that doesn't care anymore."  
  
"I don't want that for you, kid. None of us do." The depths of Rios' eyes are filled with memories and pains of old regrets. Rios must recognize it, must _see_ it, the pit that has formed in the center of Elnor's chest, a blight that feeds off his anguish, his guilt.  
  
Elnor's gaze falls to Rios' boots, his tongue leaden. If Rios takes any offense to his lack of reply, it is not apparent.  
  
"The Gul of Lalget will be meeting with us as soon as we land, so be ready," Rios says, staying any awkward silence that tries to build between them. He taps his thigh twice, then leaves as quickly as he arrived.  
  
There is wisdom in what Rios says. Losing himself to this is dangerous, Elnor knows that. But it is not so easy. His friends offer to lend their ears, but he is afraid.  
  
So afraid that they will be as disappointed in him as he is in himself.  
  
Slowly, Elnor stands. The muscles of his legs twinge at being prone for so long, but it is a discomfort that easily passes. He moves to his small washroom and turns on the faucet. Water pours into his cupped hands, spilling over once full and splashing the ends of his sleeves, going colder and colder the longer it runs.  
  
He should be aghast at himself, wasting water like this when only a handful of years ago it was so precious on Vashti that many would kill for it, but there is something calming about the flow against his skin. The chill sinks deeply, nearly biting, but it centers the disorder of his mind.  
  
Elnor splashes his face, the sting of the water bracing. Blindly, he reaches for the nearby towel and presses it to his face. The material is not particularly soft, but it soaks up the water. Elnor presses into the towel harder and harder until his skin is dry, until color bursts behind his eyelids. He rehangs the towel and avoids the mirror that adorns the wall. He does not to see what Rios sees.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Coming from Vashti, the heat of Rnn'Vel II is not so terrible a thing, but the humidity sticks to the air uncomfortably.  
  
"Oh, wow," Jurati says, covering her eyes against the sun, "This is some heat, huh?"  
  
Beside her, Rios grunts in agreement, the last to depart the ship. Picard and Raffi speak to an unhappy female Cardassian in heavy armor flanked by three other Cardassian guards. A few feet away, Seven stands alone, her gaze looking out towards the crimson expanse of desert that lies beyond the surrounding gray of the colony.  
  
She does not shield herself against the intensity of the light. Though sweat beads at her temple, she keeps her jacket on, arms crossed over her chest. She invokes the great deities of some of the books Elnor has read, her hair blazing gold and her eyes piercing the distance as she seeks what cannot be seen.  
  
Elnor's heart goes out to her, even if he is too cowardly to offer any true comfort.  
  
"Your identification checks out, Admiral Picard," speaks the Cardassian woman. "Come with me."  
  
She leads them from the hot, open air of the landing area to the largest of of the buildings. It is not ornate, but there is a subtle magnificence in the bold, curved lines of it's structure. The three guards follow from either side and behind. Elnor's hand itches for the worn grip of his sword handle, but it would be unwise to agitate the situation when there is information they need.  
  
Inside it is cooler, but only just. He hears Jurati sigh in relief.  
  
"Admiral Picard," a male Cardassian approaches them, dressed as the woman is. "It appears the colony of Lalget has never been more popular. I am Gul Dokor. To what do I owe your visit?" His eyes flicker momentarily to Seven and it is unlikely he does not already know.  
  
"Gul Dokor," Picard greets. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I know you must be a busy man, and as such I'll get to the point: I understand a mutual acquaintance was visiting your colony on business and has since has been abducted."  
  
Dokor's mouth thins. "If I may be technical, Admiral, it was outside my colony. I could not very well oversee the safety of a man who left despite orders not to."  
  
Picard holds up a hand, placating. "I don't mean to offend you, Gul Dokor. It's just... Director Hugh is a personal friend, and any information you may be able to give us about what has happened would be greatly appreciated."  
  
"There is already a Starfleet officer here," Dokor says, the strained creasing of the scales around his eyes smoothing out some. "The appointee meant to collaborate with Director Hugh on his mission was given emergency authority to take charge of the investigation once I reported it. I have given her what information there is."  
  
"I see," Picard says. "And who is this appointee?"  
  
Elnor catches the corners of Dokor's lips twitching unfavorably. "Captain Petra Morse. While we have shared all that we have, she has been less than... generous in return."  
  
That tone is a familiar one. Hugh would often share his frustrations over the politics of governments and their refusals to work together. Senseless contests with one another where pride and resentment are valued over a life.  
  
"Perhaps," Picard begins suggestively, "You might allow us to see this information?"  
  
Dokor's face is unreadable. "I understand you are retired from Starfleet, Admiral Picard. I don't believe you have the authority to involve yourself."  
  
Elnor's pulse beats loudly in his ears, his hold on his sheath strap tightening as his blade sings a warning: if this Cardassian will not give them the information they need, it will be taken from him.  
  
"That being said," Dokor continues, "As a man whose name still carries not insignificant weight, I hope you will see my cooperation to you as a... favor. Cardassia is still ravaged by a war long past, and Lalget doesn't always get the supplies it needs to support the homeworld in a timely manner."  
  
A knowing smile graces Picard's face, and Elnor lets himself breathe. "I can assure you, Gul Dokor, the generosity of Lalget will not go unspoken."  
  
Satisfied, Dokor nods once and brings them to a room. It takes only a single look for the one other Cardassian seated in front of a display to leave, giving Dokor a short, respectful incline of the head before the door closes behind him.  
  
Swiftly, the sharp points of Dokor's nails sweep across the display, and an image of a hallway, the angle of it high, appears.  
  
"This is the surveillance footage of Director Hugh leaving the compound," says Dokor, and his taps the center of the holographic projection, playing it.  
  
Weaving through the Cardassian workers is Hugh, and Elnor commits these last moments to memory. Even in the footage, he can see stress upon Hugh's face, the circles under his eyes worse, his hair always so carefully maintained now out of place. This holographic Hugh moves quickly, but not urgently. Elnor imagines it is to prevent drawing attention.  
  
Hugh continues until he is no longer within sight, and the image changes to a different view. The focus is on what appears to be a small transporter pad. Hugh approaches the console, fingers dancing across the controls faster than Elnor can follow. There is a flash of a smile, though not even the vivid detail of the holographic recreation is able to truly capture it.  
  
All of them watch as Hugh steps onto the pad, only for him to be confronted by a distressed Cardassian man seconds later. The light of the transporter starts to glow and the Cardassian man jumps into it. If the circumstances were not so dire, Hugh's baffled expression would be amusing, and then they are both gone.  
  
"Director Hugh reconfigured that site-to-site transporter and used it to beam to the coordinates of the crashed Borg ship," Dokor turns off the projection. "The Cardassian you saw follow him was assigned as his guard. His name was Potek. His body was discovered six hours ago. There was no sign of the Director at the site, nor was there any sign of a ship."  
  
Seven's eyes narrow. "You mean the Borg ship was gone?"  
  
"No," Dokor says pointedly. "I mean there never was a ship. One of your Starfleet engineers that arrived with the appointee looked through the data with our technicians. The information our ground scans picked up was faked." Without warning he slams his fist onto the display, the glass whining under the pressure. "We were played for fools! One of my men is dead, and a Federation civilian under my care abducted!"  
  
"I am sorry for your loss," Picard says, voice weathered by one whose command saw it's share of death.  
  
Dokor breathes heavily through his nose until it evens. "I apologize for my outburst," he says with forced calm. "Captain Morse has been... suggestive in our level of involvement."  
  
"And were you involved?" Seven asks curtly. "It was your scans that identified a Borg ship. Your request that an expert be sent. It's very convenient."  
  
"I can understand your suspicion," Dokor meets Seven's accusation diplomatically. "But the Director is not worth the repercussions that would befall Cardassia. Lalget's establishment has been allowed by the Federation. I wouldn't do anything to endanger that."  
  
"What about someone else stationed here?" Seven pursues. "I doubt everyone here are as benign regarding the Borg."  
  
"Can I speak for every man and woman on this colony?" Dokor muses. "No. Though, even if it was someone here, how would they have known the Director intended to leave instead of waiting? If anything, a case can be made that Director Hugh left willingly."  
  
Elnor's sword-arm tenses, but Picard, faster than his age would suggest, grabs Elnor's bicep. The action does not go unnoticed by Dokor. "Do you have something you want to say, boy?"  
  
Elnor does not bare his teeth, but it is a near thing. "Do not impugn Hugh's honor in place of your failure."  
  
"I have no opinion of the Director one way or another," Dokor says, brow-ridge raised as if speaking to a sullen child. "I think he is a fool for wanting to rehabilitate a species as unsalvageable as the Borg, but within that foolishness I find myself having a grudging respect. All I'm saying it what can be seen from the footage, and what Captain Morse has inferred."  
  
"I think, then, that we should go see Captain Morse." Picard is not angry, but there is disappointment in the way he recognizes Elnor's aggression, releasing his arm. Elnor jerks away. Picard is not his father, nor his Bonded. He has no right to chasten him.  
  
Elnor keeps his eyes anywhere else as Dokor acquiesces and leads them to this Morse. The force of Picard's gaze is on him as they move about the compound, stronger than the heat of the sun outside at his back.  
  
Fortunately, there is no shortage of new sights. Around them are hundreds of people, most Cardassian. Some dressed in military armor, in medical coats, in work suits dirtied from hours of tilling sand and soil. It is not the same as being on the Artifact, but it is similar. While the Artifact is dark corridors and artificial lights and Rnn'Vel II is open air and warm ground beneath one's feet, they both are rich in the efforts of those who come together to create something better.  
  
Elnor wonders if Hugh noticed that, walking these same paths.  
  
They turn down the hall and a voice stops them.  
  
"Admiral Picard?"  
  
Amongst the Cardassians, dressed in simple clothes, is a man who strikes familiar. His skin is dark, hair mostly white. The age of his face is wholly undone by the youth of his grin, and the startling blue of his eyes is a color Elnor has seen in only one other.  
  
He traces the name from memory, a picture lovingly displayed on a desk, just as Picard says, "Mr. La Forge? Or, pardon me, it's been Captain La Forge for a few years now hasn't it?"  
  
Geordi La Forge's smile only grows larger as he springs forward and meets Picard in a hearty embrace. "It's just Geordi right now," he says cheerfully. "My crew forced me to take a vacation. Lalget needed volunteers to help revise their irrigation systems and I needed something to do."  
  
"It's astounding how persuasive a captain's crew can be, hmm?" Picard chuckles, La Forge joining him in the shared joke.  
  
"You know one another," Dokor comments, "How fortunate. Mr. La Forge was the one to help find the discrepancies in our scan data. Please, feel free to join us. We're going to Captain Morse."  
  
La Forge grimaces at the name, a brief look shared between him and Dokor. Honed from their years together, La Forge effortlessly slides into step with Picard as their group continues. Most don't spare more than a glance, taking the unexpected arrival in stride. All save for Jurati, who, on the other side of Rios, watches La Forge in a way she must think is subtle, her eyes wide and face awed.

"So," the joy in La Forge's voice is noticeably dampened, "you heard about Hugh, huh?"  
  
Picard nods. "We were to visit him on the Artifact. When we arrived, we'd been told he'd been taken responding to a Borg ship that crashed outside this colony. Geordi, do you have any insight as to what may have happened?"  
  
"Only what I'm sure Gul Dokor has told you," La Forge says, "Lalget's ground sweeps weren't tampered with, they were fed false information and all I could find was that information came from a source outside the colony."  
  
"What about this Captain Morse? Has she uncovered anything crucial?"  
  
"I wouldn't know," La Forge says, irritation unmistakable. "I turned in what I had and she went back to whatever she was doing without so much as a 'thank you'." He sighs deep with worry. "Honestly sir, I have a feeling she's already made up her mind."  
  
Elnor is not sure what that means, but he knows it is not good. So many people assume the worst in Hugh, simply for what he is. If they could see even a portion of what Elnor sees, then they would know there is no bottom to the well of Hugh's heart.  
  
Dokor takes them into another room, bigger than the last with far more people. A handful of those stand around a far table, uniformed in the emblems and colors of Starfleet.   
  
Picard pulls at the lapels of his jacket and addresses the crew. "I'll go speak to her. Privately. It would be best not to come off as, shall we say, intimidating." Elnor knows the emphasis placed upon that word is directed to Seven especially, but the fringes of the intent are also for him.  
  
He swallows the burn of what he would like to say, sickly and coarse, but yields to Picard's relations with Starfleet.  
  
Seven, however, cares little. "Don't trust me to have a civilized conversation, Picard?"  
  
"Not at all," Picard answers. "But I have a feeling things will be said that you won't agree with, and I would like to avoid any unnecessary disputes."  
  
Seven's face hardens further, ready to fight, but Picard stops her. "If she refuses to tell us anything, which is well within her right, can you honestly say you would walk away?"  
  
Elnor knows he could not, and from Seven's silence, neither could she.  
  
"If she doesn't want to talk, then we leave. I won't waste any more time here," she concedes gruffly and it is enough for Picard.  
  
He and Dokor approach the table and a thin woman in red turns. She reminds Elnor of a T'liss with her long, thin nose and yellow-blond hair pulled back so tightly it must be painful. Her gaze settles on Picard with disdain. Such a display settles darkly in Elnor's gut. If nothing else, Picard deserves the respect of a man of honor and accomplishment. Even though Elnor is upset with him, he can admit as much.  
  
"Hey, La Forge," Rios speaks lowly. "Be honest, is Picard gonna get anywhere?"  
  
La Forge shrugs. "I don't know. I've seen Admiral Picard get blood from a stone, but I'm not sure Captain Morse has found anything to tell him, even if she wanted to. I know Lt. Haldorn," he gestures to a Benzite accented in gold, "From my academy days. He told me all they found at the site were faint traces of a beam out, but nothing strong enough to track."  
  
Rios snorts. "The blind leading the blind," his eyes dart to La Forge, expression growing awkward. "Uh, no offense."  
  
La Forge breathes a laugh. "None taken."  
  
Silence descends upon their small group, the comings and goings of Cardassian workers little more than noise lost to nerves as Elnor watches Picard and Captain Morse talk. He would give anything to be above them out of sight so that he might hear what they say.   
  
He would give anything for a sign that their mission is not so impossible.  
  
"You're Elnor, right?"  
  
Elnor nearly jumps at his own name, but thankfully his control is not so tattered. La Forge is next to him, face as friendly as Hugh has described. Yet Elnor is unnerved. Always spoken so highly of, Geordi La Forge was a name with the power to make Hugh's dreariest day brighter. A simple question, the want of a story, and Hugh would smile, recounting fond times with a man who held his favor.  
  
Elnor feels very intimidated in his presence.  
  
"Yes, I am Elnor," he answers and tries not to sound timid.  
  
A smile that rivals the one given to Picard splits La Forge's face. "I thought so. Hugh's told me a lot about you. It's great to finally meet you." A calloused hand is held out to him and Elnor takes it, face hot.  
  
"Ah- thank you." Hugh had... told La Forge about him? It makes sense, obviously, that Elnor would come up in some small way, but a lot? There really is not 'a lot' to Elnor. "I know of you from Hugh as well. You gave him his name. You are his best friend."  
  
Now it is La Forge who looks embarrassed. "Yeah," he sighs quietly, "some friend I've been. The last time we spoke had to have been right after he returned to the Artifact. I saw him on the surveillance footage. I couldn't believe how tired he looked."  
  
"Times have been difficult. He bares much responsibility," Elnor says, unable to convey how much Hugh has truly given himself to his work.  
  
Or maybe not, for an understanding crosses La Forge's face. "Sounds like Hugh. That kid'll run on empty and then beat himself up for taking a break. He was like that even before all the craziness," he recalls wistfully. "I'm glad you've stuck with him. He needs someone like you in his corner."  
  
Guilt seizes his heart. Here, La Forge praises Elnor's loyalty, speaking to him with easy camaraderie by Hugh's word alone. Naught two days ago, these words would have been received as treasured gifts. Now, they are little more than cruel mockery.  
  
"He's coming back," Rios murmurs, saving Elnor from La Forge's misplaced appreciation.  
  
Picard indeed walks back towards them, head high but eyes drawn, and Hugh slips further and further away.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Even when a young man, Jean-Luc was old. Robert would berate him endlessly for it, a never-ending stream of ridicule as an older brother is want to do.  
  
 _"What good is reaching for the stars when you won't even lift your nose out of a textbook?"_  
  
Jean-Luc remembers those times affectionately most days, hindsight encouraging him to appreciate what he had now that it's gone. Robert had a point, in his own way, but Jean-Luc doesn't consider his youth misspent. He is proud of the man he is, of the achievements he's made.  
  
But there are days where his regrets make him feel every single one of his ninety-four years. Currently, he looks into the contemptuous eyes of a young Starfleet captain, and wonders if there was something more he could have done for the ex-Borg as he had the Romulans.  
  
"The way I see it, Admiral Picard, this was no kidnapping." Captain Morse's demeanor is rather austere and her tone is unmistakably sharp. "All evidence points to Director Hugh arranging transportation off-planet."  
  
Now, Jean-Luc did not expect open arms from Captain Morse. He does not know her personally or professionally, and he is well aware that his own reputation as of late has left rather polarizing views among those in Starfleet.  
  
Her complete disregard, however, is disappointing, even if it isn't unexpected.  
  
"And what evidence would that be?" he asks despite the less-than-optimistic start to their conversation. Jean-Luc hasn't built his name as a diplomat by throwing in the towel at the first sign of trouble.  
  
"I know our mutual host Gul Dokor must have shown you the footage. Hugh left this compound of his own volition," Morse answers briskly. Jean-Luc knows the only thing keeping her from brushing him off is the trace amount of respect she's expected to show him in public, and he is certainly going to take advantage.  
  
"Captain, that, to me, sounds more like a _lack_ of evidence." Which is more than discouraging. Without some kind of lead, searching for Hugh will be tantamount to finding a needle in a haystack. "Were there any irregular communications sent out during Director Hugh's travel to Rnn'Vel II, or when he reached Lalget? Anything to support he wasn't taken by force?"  
  
Morse's eyes flash with indignation. "He could have easily sent word before leaving the Artifact," she says crossly, "We won't know until a team is sent to go over communication logs. As of right now, I have no reason to believe he _didn't_ leave willingly. Lalget's scanners were fed false Borg ship readings, and when Director Hugh wasn't immediately allowed to go to the 'ship', he simply left."  
  
"You must see that is circumstantial at best," Jean-Luc counters.  
  
"Is it?" Morse challenges, "Nothing sent to the Federation, Starfleet or the Artifact that he has been kidnapped. There have been no demands for his return, no announcements to the news," she picks up a stylus and twirls it about her fingers. He can't help but notice her pristine manicure, carefully protected from the grit of the planet. "If someone took Director Hugh it would have been made known. Unless, of course, he wanted this to happen."  
  
"And the Cardassian guard?" This is wild accusation, and a dangerous one at that. "Do you know what you're implying about his death by saying that this was some sort of plan of Hugh's?"  
  
"I'm not _implying_ anything, Admiral. He's an ex-Borg. I'm sure he's done any number of atrocities. Obviously he didn't want the guard to follow, but if the guard tried to stop him, I don't see why killing him would have been outside the Director's capabilities."  
  
It was a very wise decision to have Seven and Elnor stay back. Jean-Luc can't imagine either of them reacting well to Morse blatantly accusing Hugh of cold-blooded murder. Even he feels gobsmacked at her effrontery.  
  
Hugh is a gentle soul- a man who has seen too much violence to ever want to perpetuate it. Unfortunately, it's clear Morse does not see Hugh beyond the implants of his face. The fear of the Borg has twisted into prejudice against the ex-Borg, and Jean-Luc's own fears have blinded him to that for much too long.  
  
"I really must finish my report, Admiral," Morse dismisses him with as little politeness as she can and turns away. One of her team members' mouth falls open, eyes darting to him. Jean-Luc expresses nothing but acceptance. There isn't a thing he can do or say that will sway her judgment.  
  
"Thank you for your time, Captain Morse," he says instead and departs.  
  
Jean-Luc doesn't know Hugh very well. His time aboard the Enterprise had been brief, only just coming into his personhood- a condition Jean-Luc hadn't been confident would endure until they met again two years later, Hugh rescuing he and his team from Lore despite the danger to himself and those he was watching after.  
  
Had Hugh never wanted to see the _Enterprise_ and her crew again, Jean-Luc would hardly have blamed him. Yet thirty-odd years later Hugh welcomed him as a friend, so eager and proud to show him of his work, so primed to assure him that the xBs were people who needed help and compassion as any other race would.  
  
There is simply no conceivable way that such a man would walk away from all he's done, but unless some rather irrevocable evidence comes to light, Morse is going to submit the preliminaries of her investigation painting Hugh as a rogue who has done just that. It would fit quite nicely into the Federation's narrative of the ex-Borg, and it's unlikely anyone would concern themselves with trying to disprove the claim.  
  
Jean-Luc is going to have to go something about these allegations before they spread.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
All it takes it a quick word with Rios and the rest of the crew when they return to the _La Sirena_. Jean-Luc explains briefly what he has to do and why he has to do it. They understand his decision, the discriminatory circumstances surrounding the investigation, and they wish him luck.  
  
Seven pulls him aside and thanks him with solemn gratitude.  
  
Jean-Luc is very serious when he tells her it's the least he can do. Age is not an excuse to stand idly by.  
  
Elnor doesn't take it well, but Jean-Luc was prepared for that. It's clear that Hugh's disappearance has affected Elnor deeply. He's been distant. Angry. Quicker to temper than Jean-Luc has ever seen him.  
  
He'd looked ready to take Gul Dokor's head.  
  
Jean-Luc knows better than most how closely Qowat Milat keep their oaths, and Elnor, determined to prove himself in The Way, would hold his own oath just that much closer.  
  
But this...  
  
Well, he doesn't like to be presumptuous, but it wouldn't be surprising if there was more to what Elnor was feeling than a warrior's loyalty to their Bonded.  
  
He waits a few moments before following after Elnor, the others giving them a wide berth. He finds Elnor in front of the door to his room, caught between confrontation and escape, confrontation winning when he turns as Jean-Luc approaches.  
  
"You are leaving," Elnor accuses, fury tempered only by his youth.  
  
"I have to," Jean-Luc says, wishing he didn't.  
  
"You are abandoning us!" Elnor shakes, "You are abandoning _Hugh_!"  
  
"No, no, Elnor, I am trying to _help_ Hugh." Jean-Luc steps closer knowing he's toeing the line of the boundaries Elnor has put up. "Right now Captain Morse thinks Hugh left intentionally. If she officially reports that to Starfleet, any additional help in trying to find him will be delayed if not entirely foregone, not to mention the damage it will do to his reputation."  
  
"But he did not _leave_ , he was _taken_!"  
  
"I know that," he says, "We all know that, but..." Elnor is trapped in that place where emotion and reasoning refuse to coincide, and no amount of logic from him is going to change how Elnor feels. "To most people, Hugh is not Hugh. They don't see his kindness, they don't see his passion. All they see is a man who used to be a Borg. It isn't right and it isn't fair, but it is the reality of the situation. It will simply be easier for them to believe Hugh wanted to go, especially without any evidence to the contrary."  
  
"But why?" Elnor's voice cracks. "Why can they not...? He would never..." He trails off, fists continuing to shake.  
  
"I wish I could tell you," Jean-Luc shakes his head. Even after centuries of scientific and cultural advances, still people can fall into the same damnable patterns of societies. "Bigotry stems from fear and ignorance, and it is rarely overcome in a timely manner."  
  
"I was not there to protect him," Elnor says.  
  
"No one blames you, Elnor," Jean-Luc tells him earnestly. "Hugh certainly wouldn't."  
  
Elnor looks at him, more lost and haggard than a man his age should ever be. "Hugh... Hugh did not want me staying on the Artifact. He wished to release me from my oath before he left."  
  
"I find that hard to believe," Jean-Luc says, because Elnor and Hugh were quite inseparable while on the _La Sirena_ with Hugh recovering from his wounds and Elnor refusing to let the man out of his sight. Perhaps unused to the attention, Hugh nonetheless never seemed bothered by it. In fact, Jean-Luc would say Hugh was considerably appreciative.  
  
The two had grown close, and their shared time on the Artifact has undoubtedly only made them closer, though exactly how close Jean-Luc can't be sure, not that it would be any of his business regardless, because it is obvious the confession takes something from Elnor, like pulling out a knife without staunching the wound. The dismissal of a sword-bond would explain Elnor's behavior, but surely, even if Hugh didn't realize the ramifications of doing such a thing, he wouldn't have been blind to the pain it's caused.  
  
"It is true," Elnor asserts. "I upset him."  
  
It would take a lot to upset a man as patient and understanding as Hugh. Even if done deliberately, Jean-Luc doesn't think Elnor could do it. Something happened, but he doubts it's as straight-forward as Elnor implies. "Would you like to tell me about it?" Jean-Luc asks. The temptation on Elnor's face is clear, but after a moment it dwindles.  
  
"I cannot," Elnor whispers, head bent low. "I know it is shameful - unbecoming of a Qowat Milat warrior - but I cannot. Not yet. I do not know why." His fingers curve anxiously at his sides as if wanting to untangle the mass of his emotions. "Must you go?"  
  
The soft questions rings of a little Romulan boy clinging to his pant leg, unwilling to let him go after only just arriving on Vashti, and Jean-Luc's answering smile is much like the one he'd given Elnor back then. "I still have some prominence among the higher-ups of Starfleet. Enough at least to stall any unfavorable opinions from circulating before we can get actual answers. Hugh has his allies, but they are few and far between and I will need time to get them together."  
  
Stiffly, Elnor nods.  
  
Jean-Luc wishes he knew how to help Elnor. He's never been good with children, though Elnor is no longer a child, but it is difficult for Jean-Luc to separate the young man he is now from the boy he knew then. He's been a mentor, an uncle, and on one memorable occasion nearly a father to a believed to be long-lost son.  
  
But with Elnor there is an ingrained sense of responsibility. It had seemed so natural at the time, comforting a young boy who had just lost his family, his people, and his planet, and Jean-Luc had fallen neatly into a role he'd never thought he'd wanted. He had made promises, not so much in words but in his actions, wanting for Elnor in a way a father might want for his son.  
  
Then Jean-Luc left for fifteen years. The fact that it had been outside of his control is an empty excuse for a hurting boy. He knows Elnor has come to terms with it in his own way, understanding if not forgiving, but the pain of it is still there.  
  
And now he watches Elnor and feels helpless in a way that he never had on the bridge of a starship. He could never understand what Elnor has been through and... but, maybe... Jean-Luc's own fingers twitch a familiar pattern and is inspired. "Elnor, have you ever taken up an instrument?"  
  
The seeming irrelevance to the topic at hand catches Elnor by surprise. "No," he answers, some of the unease leaving his face. "Mother Reha taught classes in the temple, but I kept breaking the harp strings." Jean-Luc holds in a chuckle, remembering Elnor's exuberance when introduced to something new. "She would not let me touch them without strict supervision, so it did not seem worth the trouble."  
  
Jean-Luc also remembers Reha, and had often compared her to the stereotype of old Earth Catholic nuns and wooden rulers in class rooms. "Well, I have something much sturdier than a harp, and a bit simpler too."  
  
Elnor follows him to his office, piqued interest replacing anger. The recreation of his family vineyard beyond holographic French windows and sheer curtains is bitter-sweet, but Jean-Luc takes his comfort in it. His hand brushes over the deep mahogany of his desk to the brass pull of the drawer where he keeps a few real items and removes a small, stone-etched case.  
  
Always with a heavy heart, Jean-Luc opens the lid. He feels Elnor moves closer to peer over his shoulder. "What is it?"  
  
"This, Elnor, is a Ressikan flute. Would you like to learn how to play it?"  
  
Elnor's eyes flit between him and the flute. "I do not understand the offer. Why?"  
  
With practiced motions, Jean-Luc rests his fingers around the barrel at G. He takes a breath, and the song comes back to him with the gentle warmth of light after rain. The simple melody breezes around them, Jean-Luc weaving one note into the next flawlessly like this hasn't been the first time he's played in years.  
  
The harmony pulls memories of a life that wasn't his, but one he still had lived. He's a younger man living a simple life but with a terrible knowledge. His wife, intelligent, witty, beautiful, holds him close and tells him he's to be a father. His daughter, so much like her mother, takes his hand as they look across the deteriorating landscape of their planet, her own family beginning to take root, a bright spot in spite of a bleak future.  
  
It is a story of losing family, people, and home. It is a song of the pain and beauty and hope.  
  
Jean-Luc may not know Elnor's pain, but Kamin did, and for decades experienced in the span of twenty-five minutes, they had been one in the same.  
  
The final note waivers, but Jean-Luc keeps the tune steady until it tapers off naturally. His eyes feel hot, not realizing he'd closed them until he opens them to blink any errant tears away, and sees Elnor.  
  
Tears do run down Elnor's face as he looks somewhere, or sometime, far, far away. It takes him a few beats to come back to himself once the music has stopped, and he ducks under an arm to scrub at his face, purposefully avoiding Jean-Luc.  
  
But after a moment, just when Jean-Luc is about to apologize, Elnor nods.  
  
"Yes," Elnor says, voice muffled and thick, "I would like to learn."  
  
Jean-Luc smiles through his own tender emotions and feels hope.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Seven slips into Raffi's room, the code and an open invitation given to her a standard week after Coppelius. She utilizes it every now and again. Raffi hasn't mentioned that Seven hasn't offered her the same.  
  
Whatever they have is best kept simple and mutually beneficial. Raffi seems to understand that.  
  
Seven needs simple.  
  
Lalget was a dead end. The Cardassians gave them useless information, and Starfleet actively doesn't give a damn. Everything she is tells her to take the ship and find Hugh herself. Other people will only slow her down and get in her way. She is more efficient on her own.  
  
Hugh wouldn't want her to do that. He'd stand there with his arms crossed and mouth turned down as the epitome of disapproval, ready to talk Seven down from the edge she was standing on. Of course, in this hypothetical scenario, he would be more disappointed that she was isolating herself than he would be with her stealing a ship and marooning it's crew.  
  
She's angry, and, to be honest with herself, she's afraid. Hugh is gone, and some Starfleet captain wants to expunge what little reputation he's managed to build with the Federation over untenable, biased speculation.  
  
The only thing that prevented her from dangling Morse over one of Rnn'Vel II's highest dune cliffs was Picard's personal guarantee that he would fight for Hugh.  
  
"I will not allow a good man to be judged through fear," Picard had promised her privately after announcing his intent to get on the next transport to make his way back to Earth. It would have meant nothing coming from anyone else, and though Seven doesn't know if she likes Picard, she does trust him.  
  
But that is only a small fraction of the larger whole, and there is no certainty it will be rectified. Everything is orbiting outside Seven's control and she desperately wants an outlet.  
  
Raffi's company is the natural solution.  
  
The lights are low and Raffi sits in the middle of her bed bent over a data-pad in her lap. Green light reflects in her eyes from the holographic display as she skims through the data, her face pinched in concentration, no acknowledgment that Seven has entered the room.  
  
Seven shrugs off her jacket and lets it fall to the floor. She walks over to Raffi and plucks the half-full tumbler from her left hand. The whiskey is a gratifying burn as it goes down.  
  
"Hey," Raffi mumbles in greeting, biting the nail of her left thumb now that the hand is free.  
  
"Is this Hugh's data-pad?" Seven asks as she settles on the bed next to Raffi, already knowing the answer is yes. She had given it to Raffi when they had left the Artifact, relaying Eva's concerns, reasoning that if she couldn't get into it, then Raffi was the next credible choice. Still, it's impressive she's managed so quickly.  
  
"Yep," affirms Raffi as she pulls code apart with her fingertips. "Your boy really didn't want anyone poking around in his stuff."  
  
Seven glances over the pad, leaning into Raffi's warmth. "Did you find anything?"  
  
"The usual. Log entries, administrative paperwork. I tried not to dig into anything that looked too personal, but I did read over a handful of recent messages." She grins. "That man may take a lot, but he knows where to get his digs in. I'd never think to word 'a Zhat Vash attempt on my life' as 'due to my unanticipated need to take medical leave facilitated by recent events of which we are both aware'."  
  
A knowing smile pulls at Seven's lips response. That's Hugh, more tolerant than anyone deserves, but quick and biting when he's at his limit.  
  
"He hasn't made a personal log entry in a month, and the official ones are simple updates on staffing requirements and reclamation metrics," Raffi continues, "The last message he received was the one from Admiral Dorsey telling him about Lalget, but I did find something interesting before that."  
  
She brings up an audio file. "This was sent to Hugh a couple days before he left. The information attached says it was a sound picked up along the Tiburon system and he was asked to look over it. Hugh has it saved as '#41' under 'Dorsey', sub-section 'Waste of My Time', so I figure him being sent junk isn't unusual, but this was the last notable thing he got, so I dug a little deeper, and when I did..." Raffi trails off, and with a flick of her forefinger separates the file into vector waves.  
  
Seven searches the image with a growing frown. "I don't see it."  
  
"Yeah, I don't think Hugh did either. Here," Raffi reworks the data, highlighting an area what would otherwise be insignificant, and there an inconsistency beneath the original file distinguishes itself in bright red.  
  
"Do you know what it is?" Seven asks calmly, even as her muscles go rigid with apprehension.  
  
"No," Raffi says. "It could be a virus, some sort of program sequence. It could even be nothing, simple data degradation. I won't know until I open it, and I'm not going to risk opening it without better tech when I don't know what it does."  
  
Honey-brown eyes meet Seven's in a silent apology for not having more, but Seven isn't upset with her. She's been handed a single variable to an equation and told to solve it without direction. She can't follow information that may be something or may be nothing and hope it leads her to Hugh.  
  
Deep in the darker parts of herself, Seven knows that in all probability Hugh is dead. To believe otherwise is irrational. Ex-Borg serve no purpose alive, and the longer she takes to accept that, the harder it will be when she's proven right.  
  
A warm hand cups her cheek, bringing her face towards Raffi's. The spice of liquor is still on her breath as it wafts over Seven's lips. "Stop that," she reprimands softly, "I know it's not much, but it's still something we can follow. If it turns out to really be nothing, then we look somewhere else, but it's best to be sure."  
  
The instinct to turn away is strong, but the press of Raffi's thumb by the implant at the base of Seven's ear is stronger, and her anger ebbs away. "When did you become so optimistic?"  
  
Raffi smiles. "Between the two of us? Someone's gotta be, and it sure as hell isn't going to be you."  
  
Feeling too weak, too _human_ , Seven reaches out for Raffi's other hand. "Do you have a plan?"  
  
"Yeah," Raffi threads their fingers together, feeling along the metal of Seven's hand. "If we need tech, then we go to the place with the best tech. A place that happens to owe us."  
  
"Coppelius."  
  
"Yep," Raffi casually twists a lock of Seven's hair, following it down to play at the neckline of her sweater. "I figure we run it by the others in the morning before JL takes off, just so he knows."  
  
It sounds so easy, and Seven gives in to the urge to press her lips against Raffi's neck. "And then what?"  
  
"And then we don't think about it until the morning," Raffi sighs and pulls Seven down on top of her, the data-pad moved safely out of the way.  
  
Even fully clothed, Raffi's body feels soft against Seven's. Warm and delicate.  
  
Human.  
  
Seven pulls back to remove Raffi's shirt, exposing the smooth, unblemished skin of her stomach and breasts. With the light just right, Raffi's skin glows and her hair curls with the metallic sheen of copper and gold. It's nothing Seven hasn't seen before, but it still fascinates her.  
  
Where Bjayzl's beauty demanded the admiration of others, everything about her carefully crafted to weaponized perfection, Raffi's isn't like that. It's earthy, unassuming at first but only becomes more enticing the longer Seven looks.  
  
The way Raffi lies back against cream-colored sheets, looking up at Seven with her bottom lip caught between her teeth in a playful smirk, it's... nice.  
  
Nice is something Seven doesn't get very often.  
  
"You gonna sit there all night and stare?" Raffi teases, and Seven shakes her head. She came here to forget for a little while, not to remember things better left forgotten.  
  
Slowly, she runs a hand along Raffi's abdomen and feels the muscles twitch under the attention, drawing satisfied gasps. Raffi's own hands wander along the belt to Seven's pants and tug, asking permission. It takes time for Seven to relax into physical intimacy and Raffi doesn't rush her. Raffi never rushes her.  
  
The woman below her is deceptively thoughtful, and every time it leaves Seven feeling more exposed than she is comfortable with. It should be worrying how little Raffi has to do for Seven to let her guard down, but she doesn't want to think about it.  
  
Instead, she takes Raffi's lips against her own, tasting the smoke and vanilla of her mouth. Thinking about it will complicate it, and Seven wants simple. She needs simple.  
  
Right now, simple is sinking into the heat of Raffi's body until there is no space left for her fears or her worries.  
  
They can wait until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Inner Light" is hands-down one of my favorite episodes of TNG (and Star Trek overall).
> 
> Now, where the hell did I drop my Hugh-plot?

**Author's Note:**

> Things to note just in case: With this story, Hugh survived Narissa's attack as Elnor was able to contact Seven of Nine and get them to Nepenthe. Because anyone who'd know anything was gone, Narissa left the Artifact after the initial take-over happened. The cube didn't pointlessly crash into Coppelius, and Soji stayed with her people for a bit.


End file.
